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UNIVERSITY  OF 
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SAN  DIEGO     J 


FOBNIA.  SAN  DIEbU 


Social  Sciences  &  Humanities  Library 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 
Please  Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall. 

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CI  39  (5/97) 


UCSD  Lib. 


"WE'LL  STICK  TO  THE  FINISH !" 

"C'est  la  Guerre' 

(It  is  the  War) 


Photo  by  Garo 


JOE  MITCHELL  CHAPPLE 

Photograph  taken  with  Gas  Mask 


m^mmmimmmmmmmimmmmmmmmm*m***m~m~ up* •mm> 


"WE'LL  STICK 

TO  THE  FINISH!" 

'C'est  la  Guerre' 

(It  is  the  War) 


A  Voice  from  the  Soldiers  and 
Sailors  Overseas  —  People  and 
Places  Visited  in  the  War  Zones 


by 

Joe  Mitchell  Chapple 


BOSTON 

CHAPPLE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  Limited 

1918 


Copyright,  1918 

BY 

Job  Mitchell  Chapplb 


lefcuatefc 

TO  THE 

&olbier0  anb  bailors  of  ttje  rUliesf 

WHOSE  IMMORTAL  DEEDS 

ARE  RECORDED 

IN  SELF-SACRIFICE 

AND  BLOOD 


List  of  Illustrations 

The  Author Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

Woodrow  Wilson,  President  of  the  United  States.  ...  16 

Col.  Edward  M.  House 17 

Premier  Clemenceau  of  France 32 

French  "75"  Bombarding  German  Trench 33 

Clemenceau,  "The  Tiger,"  Reviewing  British  Troops .  33 

"Do  with  Us  as  You  Like" 48 

General  John  J.  ("Fighting  Jack")  Pershing 49 

In  the  Front  Lines 64 

In  No  Man's  Land 64 

On  Their  Way 65 

German  Prisoners  on  Way  to  Prison  Camp 65 

Henry  P.  Davison,  Chairman  American  Red  Cross.  .  80 

American  Red  Cross  Rest  House  Behind  Italian  Front  80 

Map  Showing  American  Red  Cross  Activities  in  Italy  81 
Report  of  the  Author's  Address  which  appeared  in  the 

Leading  Newspaper  of  Rome 96 

General  Diaz,  Commander  in  Chief  of  Italian  Army .  .  97 

Orlando,  Premier  of  Italy 112 

Guglielmo  Marconi,  Senator  and  Inventor 113 

Nite — Italian  Minister  of  Finance 128 

Conveying  Supplies  in  Besieged  Venice 129 

Luncheon  in  Paris 129 

Andre  Citroen,  France's  Foremost  Munition  Manu- 
facturer    144 

Le  Marechal  Joff re 145 

Sir  Douglas  Haig,  Commander  in  Chief  of  British 

Army 160 

(Tii) 


List  of  Illustrations 

Lloyd  George,  Premier  of  England 160 

Generalissimo  Foch,  Commander  in  Chief  of  Allied 

Armies 161 

Sir  Eric  Geddes,  Britain's  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  176 

Admiral  William  S.  Sims,  U.  S.  N 177 

Hon.  Newton  D.  Baker,  Secretary  of  War,  U.  S.  A. .  .  192 

Hon.  Josephus  Daniels,  Secretary  of  Navy,  U.  S.  A. .  .  192 

Lord  Leverhulme,  the  Creator  of  Port  Sunlight 193 

Hon.  W.  G.  Sharpe,  American  Ambassador  to  France.  208 
Hon.  Walter  Hines  Page,  American  Ambassador  to 

the  Court  of  St.  James 209 

Hon.  Thomas  Nelson  Page,  American  Ambassador  to 

Italy 224 

Area  Miss  Storey's  Hot  Comforts  Fund 225 

King  Albert  of  Belgium 240 

His  Majesty,  George  V  of  England 241 

President  Poincare  of  France 256 

Victor  Emmanuel,  King  of  Italy 257 


viii ) 


CONTENTS 

Page 

I.  C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War 1 

II.  Sailing  for  France 8 

III.  Paris  under  Bombardment 14 

IV.  Face  to  Face  with  Clemenceau — "The  Tiger"  22 
V.  With  Pershing  and  His  Men 34 

VI.  With  the  American  Troops  in  a  Gas  Mask.  50 

VII.  Under  the  Red  Cross  Banner  in  France  ...  68 

VIII.  A  Sunday  Visit  with  Marshal  Joffre 83 

IX.  Ancient  Rome  in  Modern  War  Times 92 

X.  Orlando  and  Italy's  Lawmakers 107 

XI.  Sieged  Venice  by  Night  and  Day 115 

XII.  Along  the  Italian  Front 127 

XIII.  With  the  Rolling  Canteen  in  Italy 144 

XIV.  Andre   Citroen,    an   Industrial    Leader    of 

France 153 

XV.  Generalissimo  Foch,  the  Strategist 161 

XVI.  Sir  Douglas  Haig,  British  Commander 166 

XVII.  Lloyd  George— The  Lion  of  No.  10  Down- 
ing Street 171 

XVIII.  "The  Admiralty"  and  Admiral  Sims 181 

XIX.  A  Visit  to  the  Grand  Fleet 194 

XX.  With  the  American  Destroyers — The  Doom 

of  the  Submarine 209 

XXI.  Lord  Leverhulme  and  the  Six-Hour-Day.  .  225 

XXII.  American  Ambassadors  in  Warring  Europe.  237 

XXIII.  Among  the  Workers  Behind  the  Lines 252 

XXIV.  King  Albert  in  His  Trenched  Domain 273 

XXV.  London  in  War  times 284 

XXVI.  Homeward  Bound— Smoke  Talk 296 

(ix) 


FOREWORD 


THIS  book  was  never  planned — it  grew.  I 
went  to  the  Western  Front  in  the  capacity 
of  a  magazine  editor,  largely  to  see  things, 
to  feel  the  spirit  of  our  men  overseas,  to  talk 
with  them  in  a  friendly  and  informal  way,  to  mix 
with  them,  live  their  life,  eat  their  food,  and  to 
know  at  first-hand  something  of  Pershing  and  his 
men;  of  Sims  and  his  sailors. 

The  purpose  has  grown  with  the  book.  It  has 
broadened  until  my  travels  have  covered  all  fronts, 
from  Flanders  Field  to  the  highest  peak  of  the 
Alps,  and  the  seas  from  Ireland  to  Scotland. 

I  have  lived  and  talked  with  British  Tommies, 
Canadian  and  Australian  Colonials,  French  Poilus, 
Italian  Bersagliere,  and  Yankee  Americans.  On 
land  and  on  sea  I  saw  soldiers  and  sailors  mingling 
in  a  New  World  comradeship.  On  the  battlefields 
they  were  brigaded  in  such  a  "oneness"  that  only 
the   uniform  they   wore  furnished  identity.     On 


Foreword 

the  sea,  at  least  two  great  nations  had  so  merged 
that  the  flag  of  each  dipped  as  one. 

Not  only  did  I  see  the  big  guns  of  the  field  and 
the  fleet,  but  the  great  men  of  the  Allied  nations 
as  well — looked  into  their  eyes,  heard  their  senti- 
ments and  felt  their  purpose.  Some  of  their  in- 
spiring utterances  I  have  brought  back  with  me. 

My  chief  aim  was  to  see  our  own  boys,  to  hear 
their  words,  to  see  them  under  fire,  and  to  know 
how  it  fared  with  them  in  the  great  conflict. 
What  I  heard  and  saw  constitutes  a  message — a 
message  which  is  like  fire  shut  up  in  my  bones. 
It  is  too  sacred  for  personal  knowledge  alone. 
Within  me  is  an  all-compelling  must. 

Not  for  authorial  pride,  but  to  stimulate  col- 
lective patriotism  in  my  own  country — to  hearten 
the  parents,  relatives  and  sweethearts.  To  induce 
them,  if  possible,  to  keep  flying  the  white  letters 
of  cheer,  not  once  a  week  merely,  but  once  a  day; 
to  keep  before  our  brave  soldiers  at  the  front  the 
knowledge  that  the  home  fires  are  brightly  burning, 
and  to  inspire  them  with  the  nobleness  of  their 
service  and  the  glory  of  their  sacrifice.  This  is 
the  whole  reason  for  a  book,  furnishing,  as  it  does, 
one  of  the  great  channels  of  communication. 

To  me  was  given  the  unexpected  privilege  of 
talking  to  the  boys  singly,  in  groups  and  in  mass 

xii) 


Foreword 

meetings — of  talking  to  them  in  plain  clothes,  in 
plain  language,  and  of  giving  them  a  plain  message. 
I  wanted  them  to  feel,  not  that  I  was  an  official 
or  on  an  accredited  mission,  but  rather  just  a 
feller  from  home,  sorry  for  only  one  thing — that 
I  was  not  actually  one  of  them. 

How  readily  they  responded!  Rushing  about 
me,  almost  the  whole  burden  of  their  question 
was:  "Are  you  going  back  home?"  And  many 
were  the  addresses  I  brought  back — of  parents  or 
relatives  to  be  remembered,  even  the  shy  word 
"to  the  sweetest  little  girl  in  the  world." 

My  message  in  this  book  is  in  the  same  plain 
language  I  used  with  the  boys.  Its  sentences  will 
need  no  interpreter. 

I  wish  to  return  deepest  gratitude  to  those  at 
home  who  in  so  many  ways  made  my  oversea  trip 
possible,  and  to  the  great  number  abroad  who  by 
innumerable  acts  of  courtesy  and  kindness  helped 
to  make  my  stay  the  most  thrilling  experience  of 
my  life.  To  Secretary  Daniels,  who  made  possible 
the  trip;  to  Secretary  Lansing  and  to  Secretary 
Baker,  who  greatly  facilitated  it;  to  Vice-Presi- 
dent Marshall,  whose  words  about  me  I  should  be 
proud  to  have  in  my  biography;  to  George  Creel, 
Theodore  Roosevelt,  Admiral  McGowan,  and 
Colonel  House,  whose  friendly  words  opened  many 

<*iii) 


Foreword 

a  door;  to  numerous  other  personal  friends  whose 
deeds  transcend  their  names;  and  especially  to 
one  friend,  who  stood  sponsor  for  the  book,  and 
who  would  not  permit  the  mention  of  his  name, 
yet  who  purchased  the  first  one  thousand  copies, 
insisting  that  he  was  inspired  purely  by  patriotic 
motives  in  placing  these  in  the  hands  of  soldiers 
and  sailors. 

To  Woodrow  Wilson,  President  of  the  United 
States,  whose  inspiring  utterances  and  patriotic 
spirit  helped  so  largely  in  accrediting  me  all 
through  Europe  as  an  American  citizen. 


(xiv) 


WE'LL  STICK  TO  THE  FINISH!" 


"C'est  la  Guerre' 

{It  is  the  War) 


C'EST  LA   GUERRE— IT   IS   THE   WAR 


THE  universal  phrase,  "C'est  la  Guerre/'  (say- 
lu-gair),  comes  hot  from  the  heart  of  France. 
It  covers  the  various  emotions  of  the  war. 
The  wailing  pacifist  shakes  his  head  declaring  "C'est 
la  Guerre";  the  chic  merrymaker  of  Paris  with 
a  swing  of  the  arms,  declares,  "C'est  laGuerre";  the 
embittered  cynic  sneers,  "C'est  la  Guerre";  the 
sorrowing  man,  woman  and  child  resignedly  say, 
"C'est  la  Guerre";  but  its  climax  is  reached  when 
the  soldier,  his  soul  aflame,  rushes  into  the  fray  or 
into  No  Man's  Land  where  the  ghostly  gloom  is 
lighted  only  by  the  cannon's  flare,  exultingly 
shouting,  "C'est  la  Guerre."  In  that  cry  is  the 
hope  of  civilization. 

Because  it  voices  every  angle  of  the  greatest 
struggle  in  the  world,  we  use  the  French  phrase 
"C'est  la  Guerre" — for  in  all  history  this  is  the  war. 

Peering  into  the  impenetrable  distance  are  the 
eyes  of  the  great  family -fraternity  who  have  fathers, 


2  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

husbands,  sons  and  sweethearts  in  the  conflict, 
and  who  welcome  not  only  what  is  defined  knowl- 
edge, but  the  merest  fragments  of  information  as 
to  whereabouts  and  doings  of  their  own. 

There  is  something  in  the  contemplation  of 
war  which  is  sobering  in  itself,  but  when  we  con- 
sider the  scope  of  this  struggle,  how  inconsequential 
are  all  those  things  we  thought  greatest  in  life. 
And  what  are  the  stakes?  Not  markets,  not 
territory,  but  life  and  death.  It  is  the  crucial 
hour  of  the  world. 

In  the  United  States,  we  have  come  gradually 
to  the  realization  that  we  are  at  war  and  have 
taken  our  place  by  the  side  of  heroic  Allies.  The 
die  is  cast.  The  liberties  of  free  peoples  must  be 
written  for  the  ages  in  the  blood  of  our  own  soldiers. 

Americans  in  France,  accustomed  to  the  con- 
templation of  big  things,  find  the  proportions  of 
this  war  to  be  overwhelming.  Armies  of  a  million 
are  but  a  dot  on  the  map.  The  actual  fighting 
line  reaches  a  distance  equal  to  that  from  Boston 
to  Buffalo.  Five  tons  of  supplies  must  go  three 
thousand  miles  with  every  American  soldier. 
Yankee  genius  has  provided  bakeries  producing  a 
million  loaves  a  day.  Every  device  in  the  rear  of 
the  line  is  being  used  to  conserve  the  precious 
drops    of    American    blood.      Drinking    water    is 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  3 

analyzed  in  the  laboratories  every  day.  The 
health  of  the  soldier  is  paramount.  The  slime  and 
mud  of  the  trench  is  lessened  when  the  soldier  is 
"fit."  The  health  of  the  American  soldier  is  good 
to  see  and  his  spirits  correspond.  Here  in  the 
making  is  a  new  type  of  citizenship — void  of  caste 
and  social  distinctions — the  sublime  task  is  making 
comrades  of  all. 

Nothing  we  ever  saw  or  read  before  in  ancient 
lore  equals  the  courage  manifested  by  our  soldiers 
in  France.  There  are  moments,  to  be  sure,  when, 
face  to  face  with  death,  there  are  gulping  throats, 
but  they  are  philosophical  even  then. 

The  boys  are  not  to  be  censured  because  they 
do  not  write;  their  time  is  full  and  there  is  action 
in  every  moment.  Even  in  the  rest  billets  is  the 
subconsciousness  which  comes  with  realization 
that   grim  Death  hovers  everywhere. 

We  used  to  speak  of  our  soldiers  as  "boys,"  but 
in  France  they  have  grown  to  the  full  stature  of 
manhood.  What  a  thrill  it  gave  me  to  see  in  per- 
son those  whose  pictures  a  year  or  two  ago  mothers 
had  put  into  my  hands. 

In  the  mile  after  mile  of  troops  I  saw  going  to 
the  trenches,  not  one  countenance  reflected  regret, 
not  one  face  carried  the  sullen  aspect  of  engaging 
in  an  unwilling  task. 


4  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

The  dominant  thought  of  all  is — to  win  the  war, 
to  stick  to  the  finish.  Not  one  wishes  to  return 
until  the  job  is  done.  There  is  no  complaining 
about  food  or  accommodations.  Everything  is 
accepted  with  soldierly  fortitude.  The  only  ex- 
pressed wish  I  heard  was  for  candy,  cigarettes  and 
socks.  There  is  not  sufficient  leisure  in  the  camp 
for  the  smoking  of  pipes  or  for  the  solacing 
cigar,  but  a  cigarette  is  quickly  lighted  and  seems 
to  offer  a  soothing  sedative  when  shrapnel  is 
falling. 

The  desolation  of  "No  Man's  Land"  cannot  be 
described.  Side  by  side  with  fields  of  living  green, 
spangled  with  flowers,  cheered  by  the  songs  of 
birds,  is  that  black,  churned,  barren  strip  of  land, 
over  which  nothing  stalks  but  Death. 

To  visit  the  war  front  from  siege -stricken 
Venice,  Padua,  and  Asiago  in  the  Tyrol  Alps; 
Verdun  with  its  valorous  Poilus;  sectors  held  by 
brave  British,  intrepid  Americans,  and  fearless 
Colonials,  Canadians  and  Belgians;  to  see  the 
battle  grounds  where  wave  after  wave  of  the 
fiendish  Huns  have  been  met,  together  with  the 
great  hospitals,  aviation  camps,  the  Grand  Fleet 
at  the  Firth,  and  the  destroyer  flotilla  at  Queens- 
town,  is  to  be  overwhelmed  with  the  magnitude 
of  the  struggle. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  5 

Not  only  on  the  earth  but  in  the  sky  are  the 
forces  struggling.  Observation  balloons,  night 
raids,  long  range  guns,  and  flying  squadrons 
are  now  a  part  of  war's  machinery.  Thrilling  it 
was  and  touching  to  see  the  A.  E.  F.  from  far-off 
America — stars  of  manhood  from  every  state  and 
territory  in  the  Union.  Their  parade  through 
the  streets  of  London  moved  the  sturdy  Britishers 
to  fervent  enthusiasm.  Nor  were  the  French  to 
be  outdone  in  their  admiration  for  the  American 
troops — the  finest  of  America's  sons  poured  out 
on  the  sacrificial  altar.    Yet  "c'est  la  guerre." 

In  all  the  camps  I  visited  I  never  indulged  in 
poetical  rhapsodies  about  the  war.  There  was  a 
practical  job  to  do  and  no  poetry  about  it.  It 
was  a  matter  of  business  to  direct  the  great  flow- 
ing tides  of  American  and  British  khaki,  French 
blue  and  Italian  green.  Moving  trains  everywhere 
were  laden  with  guns  and  soldiers.  Men  accus- 
tomed to  Pullmans,  and  once  churlish  in  taking 
an  upper  berth  were  now  glad  to  have  room  to 
move  their  feet,  to  say  nothing  of  lying  down. 
The  carriages  in  most  cases  were  freight  cars — 
hommes,  40;  cheveaux,  8.  Armies  moved  to  and 
fro  in  a  new  world  comradeship;  Italians  coming 
to  the  north,  and  British  moving  south  to  the 
plateau  of  Asiago.      The  wounded  were  pouring 


6  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

into  "Blighty,"  that  haven  for  dauntless  Cana- 
dians, courageous  Colonials  and  heroic  British. 

The  result  of  the  war  resolves  itself  into  a 
matter  of  mathematical  calculation  where  the 
forces  with  the  longest  range  guns  and  the  largest 
number  of  men  in  reserve  have  the  advantage. 

But  there  is  another  element,  sometimes  over- 
looked, which  in  this  war  may  well  prove  to  be 
the  deciding  factor,  and  that  is,  the  morale. 
Should  this  be  so,  as  manifest  by  the  sublime 
spirit  of  the  Allied  troops,  the  future  is  full  of 
hope. 

The  most  impressive  picture  of  my  entire 
journey  was  the  salute  of  a  young  American 
commander  of  a  machine  gun  company  as  he 
reported  at  headquarters,  with  a  gashing  wound 
in  his  arm,  "My  men  are  at  the  guns."  When 
the  supporting  troops  were  sent,  they  found  every 
man  at  the  guns,  but — they  were  dead.  There 
were  no  chains  on  the  wrists  of  these  boys.  In 
the  hospital  trains  or  on  the  cars  of  wounded, 
there  is  little  complaint,  although  men  are  bleed- 
ing and  dying.  At  most  there  may  be  the  pitiful 
call  for  "mother,"  yet  "cest  la  guerre." 

The  evidences  of  war's  ravages  are  legion. 
There  is  the  tottering  cripple,  the  mangled  form, 
and   the   groping  blind — yet   even  in  these  is  a 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  7 

radiance  which  speaks  of  souls  burning  with  a 
great  purpose.  It  is  for  people  on  this  side  of  the 
water,  possessed  of  physical  health  and  enjoying 
the  comforts  of  home,  to  pour  out  unstintingly 
of  all  they  possess — their  time,  thought,  energy 
and  money — but,  above  all,  to  give  themselves, 
unreservedly  as  our  soldiers  are  doing — to  win  the 
war! 


II 


SAILING  FOR  FRANCE 


SAILING  for  France!"  What  a  new  and 
strange  significance  that  sentence  has  in  the 
year,  A.  D.  1918. 
Clad  in  a  cutaway,  a  two-year-old  Chesterfield 
summer  overcoat  with  flowing  skirt,  I  sailed  away, 
prouder  than  I  had  ever  been  in  a  dress  suit. 
Today  the  most  precious  heritage  I  have  is  that 
old  coat,  for  I  not  only  wore  it  on  all  the  battle- 
fronts,  but — how  sacred  it  seems! — it  has  been 
touched  with  the  blood  of  some  of  our  American 
boys! 

On  the  S.  S.  Espagne  were  Americans,  English, 
French,  and  Italians — people  representing  nearly 
all  allied  and  neutral  countries.  Each  passport 
was  concrete  in  its  directions,  and  each  passenger 
specific  in  his  declaration,  ''I  sail  with  a  purpose." 
Business  and  pleasure  were  of  the  past.  Life  biog- 
raphies were  recited  and  explanations  made; 
missions  were  magnified  and  exploited  in  the  quick 

(8) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  9 

acquaintance  of  shipmates.  At  the  first  table 
before  reaching  the  rolling  seas,  I  had  a  toothache, 
which  caused  me  to  list  my  head  to  port.  The  lady 
opposite  thought  she  had  drawn  a  grouch,  when  I 
confessed — "a  toothache."  It  was  a  French  ship,  a 
French  crew,  and  a  French  cook.  The  cook,  with 
his  soups,  stews  and  salads,  soon  won  our  hearts 
and  reconciled  us  to  war  rations.  I  found  my 
French  was  not  working  well.  Asking,  in  a 
bilious  tone,  for  eggs  at  breakfast,  I  was  handed 
a  lemon. 

My  steward,  Jean  Gardin  of  the  220th  French 
Infantry,  was  wounded  five  times  in  the  Marne 
campaign  and  in  the  assaults  of  Verdun  in  1914 
and  191G,  and  had  received  the  War  Cross.  He  lost 
one  eye  on  his  twenty-ninth  birthday  at  Verdun, 
but  he  sees  more  than  many  with  two  eyes.  He 
was  honorably  discharged  and  detailed  to  help  on 
steamships ;  every  wounded  soldier  finds  something 
to  do.  When  I  heard  his  story  I  felt  like  getting 
up  and  waiting  on  him. 

The  personnel  of  the  passenger  list  was  inter- 
esting, indicating  a  variety  of  purpose.  Mary 
Garden  was  singing  for  the  soldiers  on  the  lower 
deck.  She  greeted  them  all  with  a  kiss  (by  proxy) . 
The  lucky  man  was  introduced  and  given  the 
osculatory  salute  to  pass  on — in  spirit.     Hurrahs 


10  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

for  the  famous  American  prima  donna  rang  over 
the  decks. 

Miss  Boardman  presided  at  all  the  Red  Cross 
meetings,  Chaplain  Smith  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
gatherings,  and  Burton  Stevenson  at  the  Library 
rallies.  Everything  pertaining  to  the  war  was 
discussed.  Pictures  of  the  scenes  referred  to  were 
envisioned. 

Miss  Anne  Morgan  rehearsed  the  rehabilitation 
plans  at  the  deck  gatherings.  "This  is  not  the 
time  for  writing  about  what  we  are  going  to  do — 
it  is  the  time  for  doing  things,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Cashman  and  Mrs.  Coleman  du  Pont  of 
the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  were  enroute  to  visit  the  hostess 
houses.  General  Rodiquet,  a  veteran  of  the 
Franco-Prussian  campaign,  who  served  with  Joffre 
in  two  wars,  corrected  me  with  military  precision : 

"Marechal  Joffre — no  longer  General." 

Red  Cross  meetings  were  held  (weather  permit- 
ting) every  day  in  the  lounge.  Y.  M.  C.  A.  gath- 
erings were  scheduled  with  regularity.  Nearly 
every  state  was  represented  in  the  personnel, 
including  stenographers  struggling  with  French 
and  slow  appetites,  chauffeurs,  canteen  workers, 
nurses  in  military  cloaks  with  red  lining,  Red 
Cross  workers,  Y.  M.  C.  A.  recruits,  Salvation 
Army  officers,  Camp  Community  helpers,  women 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  11 

for  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  hostess  houses;  in  fact,  every 
branch  of  war  activities  was  in  evidence,  all 
uniformed  and  enthusiastic — if  the  sea  was  not 
too  rolling.  The  first  query  was:  "Where  is  your 
home?"  Everyone  seemed  to  find  somebody  he 
had  met  or  who  had  met  someone  he  knew. 

Well  out  of  sight  of  land,  soldiers  in  brown  blos- 
somed on  the  decks  below,  fore  and  aft.  The  old 
demands  for  ship-service  as  in  peace  days  were 
silenced  and  transformed  into  a  slogan  of  help- 
service  for  everybody.  The  luxurious  salons  and 
promenade  decks  were  thrown  open  to  the  soldiers, 
while  cigarettes  and  baskets  of  candy  were  show- 
ered upon  them.  It  was  a  voyage  exemplifying 
the  mellowing  influences  of  democracy  in  war 
times. 

Approaching  Europe,  the  fever  of  expectancy 
as  to  submarines  increased.  Drills  with  life  pre- 
servers were  called  the  first  day  out.  As  each 
assembled,  every  one  looked  his  lifeboat  mates 
over  with  curious  social  concern.  Some  appeared 
in  unsinkable  suits,  like  ghostly  spectres  from 
subterranean  depths.  All  speculated  as  to  just 
what  they  were  going  to  do  in  the  event  of  "six 
sharp  whistles."  I  was  a  member  of  Boat  8, 
which,  with  several  stout  gentlemen  and  a  few 
ladies   to  match,  had   an  impressive  crew.     The 


12  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

stout  people  at  once  formed  a  firm  and  fast  alliance, 
holding  regular  meetings  on  starboard  boat  deck. 

The  first  glimpse  of  land  brought  a  quiver  like 
that  Columbus  must  have  felt  when  he  sighted 
the  shores  of  San  Salvador.  The  dashing  American 
destroyer  hove  in  sight,  and  we  immediately  had 
a  feeling  of  complete  safety  when  we  saw  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  astern  the  craft.  A  rim  of  land, 
with  tiled  roofs  skirting  the  distant  shore,  brought 
a  welcome  relief  after  eight  tense  days  on  perilous 
seas.  Miles  and  miles  of  new  docks  were  included 
in  the  vista.  A  veritable  forest  of  piling  already 
driven  to  provide  for  endless  wharves  on  which  to 
land  troops  and  supplies,  brought  to  mind  the  tri- 
umph of  American  constructive  genius  at  Panama. 

What  a  welcome  sight  actually  to  see  Uncle 
Sam's  uniform  in  France!  Hails  of  welcome  came 
from  both  shores  as  the  boat  sailed  up  the  river. 

"Where  are  you  from?"  was  the  greeting  across 
the  water,  from  every  nook  and  corner,  from  the 
tops  of  houses — all  in  our  own  tongue!  This 
brought  a  thrill. 

Landing  at  Bordeaux  and  at  night,  the  air  was 
heavy  with  the  fumes  of  wine.  There  was  no 
question — this  was  Bordeaux!  The  open  parks 
and  available  spaces  on  the  streets  were  filled  with 
cases  of  automobiles  and  supplies  on  their  way  to 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  13 

the  front.  The  whole  city  seemed  like  a  giant 
camp  behind  the  lines.  The  quaint  little  Hotel 
Pyrenees  was  a  haven,  and  I  hastened  to  dinner. 
The  lilacs  were  in  bloom,  distilling  in  the  dining 
hall  their  soft  fragrance  at  eventide.  And  yet  as  I 
sat  there  it  seemed  suddenly  lonely.  Just  then  a 
wee  tot  of  four,  with  large  brown  eyes,  orphan  of  a 
French  soldier,  unconscious  of  the  grim  realities  of 
war,  climbed  up  to  my  knee.  Her  childish  chatter 
in  French  was  like  music.  "J'vu  zaim"  (I  love 
you),  she  confided.  Then  added  sadly,  "Papa 
parti"  (papa  gone),  "Maman  perdue"  (mamma 
lost).  When  she  threw  her  little  arms  around  my 
neck  and  kissed  me,  France  had  won  my  heart! 


Ill 


PARIS  UNDER  BOMBARDMENT 


THE  soft  slumber  of  the  night  ended  rather 
abruptly  in  Bordeaux  next  morning  by  the 
crashing  strains  of  a  French  military  band. 
They  seemed  to  be  calling  me  to  Paris.  Paris  in 
war  time!  What  wonder  that  my  blood  flowed  fast? 
For  a  moment  I  indulged  in  a  reverie — thinking 
of  La  Belle  France  and  the  little  tot  of  the  night 
before,  who  this  very  day  was  to  embark  for  my 
own  America! 

There  was  little  time  for  dreaming,  for  "Boots" 
bounded  into  my  room,  showing  in  his  broad  smile 
teeth  rivaling  the  shine  he  had  put  on  my  shoes. 
He  was  a  diplomat  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word; 
what  else  could  I  do  except  pay  him  well  when 
he  addressed  me  as  "A  Big  Gun  from  America?" 
But  "big  guns"  was  the  absorbing  thought  in  the 
mind  of ^every^ Frenchman. 

He  started  to  tell  me  of  the  long-range  "Bertha," 
but  before  I  had  time  to  comprehend,  I  was  made 

(14) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  15 

to  realize  that  even  a  civilian  tourist  is  on  a  war 
footing  and  subject  to  call. 

The  'phone  rang,  and  in  muffled  tones  a  pleading 
voice — accent  decidedly  American — asked,  "Can 
you  come  to  my  room?"  Entering,  I  had  visions 
of  some  great  over-night  secret,  when  there  fell  on 
my  ears  this  distressed  question:    "Joe,  can  you 

help  me  put  on  these  d d  puttees?     You  must 

or  I'm  'sub'd,'  and  can't  report  to  headquarters." 

It  was  a  fellow-member  of  the  fat  men's  alliance 
of  life  boat  No.  8.  He  couldn't  manage  the  spring 
clutch.  At  least  I  began  the  day  well,  for  I  saved 
the  dignity  of  a  Red  Cross  major. 

Before  proceeding  to  Paris,  short  excursions 
were  made  in  the  rural  sections  of  Bordeaux,  largely 
to  feel  the  pulse  of  the  people  outside  of  official 
circles.  In  these  journeys  one  thing  stands  out 
pre-eminent,  and  that  is  the  French  woman. 
Nearly  every  one  you  meet  wears  mourning.  Their 
faces  are  bathed  in  a  chaste  resignation.  You  see 
them  on  street  cars  and  trams,  for  here  they  act 
as  motorwomen  and  conductors,  although  retain- 
ing their  accustomed  preference  for  skirts.  They 
are  everywhere,  in  the  fields  following  the  plow, 
for  they,  too,  are  truly  "in  the  trenches." 

Now  we  are  on  toward  Paris,  through  the 
chateau  district,  with  its  touches  of  the  ancient 


16  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

nobility  of  France.  Everywhere  Americans  are 
arriving.  It  was  nightfall  when  we  reached  Paris. 
It  was  practically  in  darkness.  The  few  lights  to 
baffle  bombers  were  shaded  a  ghastly  blue.  The 
Stygian  blackness  was  a  decided  contrast  to  the 
brilliant  glare  of  peace  times.  It  was  hard  to 
believe  that  this  was  the  Paris  of  long  ago.  Not 
one  bright  light  anywhere.  The  curtains  in  the 
railway  trains  and  in  every  house  were  drawn 
tight,  for  a  light  at  night  is  criminal.  It  was  as 
if  we  were  in  another  world. 

The  railway  station  presented  a  scene  of  inde- 
scribable confusion.  The  German  long-range  gun 
was  busy.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  people, 
realizing  that  Paris  was  being  shelled  from  Ger- 
man territory  rather  than  bombed  from  airplanes 
in  the  sky,  were  fleeing  the  city  for  safety.  They 
stood  in  long  lines  before  the  ticket  window,  or 
sat  on  their  baggage  surrounding  the  line,  the 
trunks  and  bags  looking  like  miniature  fortifica- 
tions. They  had  been  waiting  all  day  for  a  ticket 
of  leave.  Mothers  with  families  were  there.  It 
was  like  a  land  rush  in  Oklahoma.  Certain  ones 
brought  food  to  those  in  line  in  order  that  the 
"waiters"  should  not  lose  their  places.  Emerging 
through  the  station  we  sighted  a  vacant  omnibus 
in  the  darkness,  which   was   chartered    after  an 


WOODROW  WILSON,  PRESIDENT  OE  THE  UNITED  STATES 


Copyright,  Elliott  &  Fry,  Ltd.,  London,  W. 

COL.  EDWARD  M.  HOUSE 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  17 

hour's  parley.  Rumbling  through  the  once  gay 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  faintly  before  us  gleamed  the 
golden  bronze  statue  of  Jeanne  d'Arc — the  only 
ray  of  light — typifying  the  unconquerable  spirit  of 
France.  Scattered  here  and  there  were  green  buoy 
lights  bearing  the  inscription  "Abri  80  persons." 
These  were  refuge  places  in  times  of  raid. 

The  boulevard  was  as  silent^as  Ta  churchyard, 
except  that  the  "big  Bertha"  shells  boomed  every 
twenty  minutes  like  a  death  knell.  In  the  hotel 
was  a  strange  silence.  A  solemn  few  loitered 
late  over  coffee.  The  streets  were  deserted  except 
for  stragglers  here  and  there,  who  unconsciously 
either  whistled  a  warning  or  uttered  some  sound 
as  they  approached.  That  night  an  air  raid  was 
on,  but  afterwards,  when  the  "all  clear"  signal 
was  given,  there  came  a  quietude  like  that  of  the 
old  farm  which  only  the  crickets  disturb,  except 
in  this  instance  it  was  broken  by  the  occasional 
honking  of  automobiles,  sounding  like  a  school  of 
barking  walrus.  Shiveringly  I  crawled  into  bed, 
not  knowing  what  the  night  would  bring.  I  came 
to  the  mental  decision,  "Well,  if  the  bombs 
are  coming,  they'll  come,"  and,  kicking  off  the 
young  feather  bed,  I  slept  soundly  in  bombarded 
Paris. 

Morning  found  me  without  a  bread  ticket.    The 


18  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

cafe  chairs  outside  on  the  pavement  looked  like 
spectres.  The  waiter  could  not  understand  my 
English,  nor  would  he  understand  my  hungry 
motions.  I  had  to  report  to  the  Prefecture  of 
Police,  and  before  I  had  complied  with  the  regu- 
lations of  a  civilian  stranger  entering  Paris  I  had 
spent  forty -nine  francs  in  taxi  fares. 

In  the  basement  of  a  dingy  old  municipal  build- 
ing, famous  as  the  quarters  of  Voltaire,  I  received 
a  pain  ticket  which  looked  like  a  calendar.  For 
each  day  there  was  a  coupon  to  clip  off,  and  I  felt 
like  a  Croesus  as  I  enjoyed  my  first  legalized  bread 
in  Paris.  There  was  no  butter  or  sugar.  They 
handed  me  a  bottle  of  saccharine,  and  the  first  cup 
was  properly  loaded;  but  the  second  cup  caught 
the  pearly  drops  from  a  cruse  of  vinegar  nearby, 
mistaken  for  saccharine,  and  one  cup  of  chicory 
was  lost. 

Champs  Ely  sees,  now  covered  with  war  huts, 
recalled  memories  of  the  laughing  throngs  of  former 
days.  Few  people  were  to  be  seen  in  any  of  the 
parks.  Any  American  who  had  been  in  Paris  three 
or  four  months  was  a  veteran  with  a  great  wealth 
of  incidents  as  to  the  sufferings  and  deprivations 
he  and  others  had  endured. 

A  young  American  officer  with  some  friends 
invited   me   to   lunch.     He   said,  "We  will  go  to 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  19 

Maxim's  and  see  how  it  compares  with  the 
good  old  days,  and  if  it  looks  like  the  stage 
setting  in  the  'Merry  Widow.' "  He  hailed  a  cab. 
We  entered  with  a  lordly  air,  the  cab  started, 
wheeled  around  the  corner,  and — we  were  at 
Maxim's — the  next  door.  I  am  told  that  the 
American  Red  Cross  is  utilizing  the  two  upper 
floors  and  that  these  gay  environments  also  serve 
as  quarters  for  the  chaplains.  Maxim's  was  a 
war  meal  in  name  only.  There  was  nothing  lacking 
in  the  way  of  food,  providing  there  is  a  maximum 
bank  roll  to  match.  The  real  difficulty  in  getting 
something  to  eat  in  Paris  is  in  the  morning,  for  the 
cafes  do  not  open  until  nine — the  old  leisure  hours 
are  not  entirely  gone. 

In  my  journeys  among  the  French  people, 
outside  the  purely  political  and  cafe  centers, 
especially  in  the  little  stores  or  homes  and  village 
plazas,  I  obtained  some  insight  into  the  mind 
of  the  masses  as  it  exists  after  four  years  of 
the  most  cruel  war.  With  an  alert  interpreter, 
many  of  their  comments  were  noted,  especially 
those  favorable  and  unfavorable  ones  about  the  fat 
American.  The  valorous  spirit  of  France  was 
omnipresent.  A  group  around  a  coffee  table  was 
discussing  in  subdued  and  earnest  voices  the 
mystery  of  the  big  gun.    One  officer  in  the  group 


20  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

was  later  dismissed  for  repeating  a  false  rumor  of 
victory.  Comment,  on  the  part  of  soldiers,  is  es- 
pecially forbidden.  When  the  big  gun  first  boomed, 
it  was  thought  to  be  some  new  kind  of  air  raid,  but 
Paris  was  becoming  accustomed  to  these.  When  the 
alarm  is  given  by  the  siren  whistle  and  the  fire 
department  is  in  action,  people  rush  to  the  abri, 
or  into  metro  or  subway  tubes,  where  they  remain 
until  the  safety  signal  is  given.  When  the  truth 
was  realized,  due  to  the  regularity  of  the  firing, 
and  with  no  airplanes  in  sight,  the  long-range  gun 
brought  a  shudder,  especially  in  one  district  within 
the  range. 

There  was  something  weird  in  the  "dud"  or  shell 
of  the  "La  Belle  Bertha"  found  in  Paris.  A  "dud"  is 
a  shell  which  did  not  explode.  The  bombardment 
killed  more  people  than  the  siege  of  Paris  in  the 
Franco-Prussian  war.  That  does  not  mean  as 
many  fatalities,  because  in  the  siege  deaths 
were  mostly  from  starvation.  The  British  had  a 
gun  in  1885  that  carried  sixty  miles,  but  this 
gun  had  a  range  of  approximately  seventy  miles. 
The  long-range  "Bertha"  is  not  a  mystery.  It  is 
an  eight-and-one-quarter  shell  fired  from  a  fifteen- 
inch  gun,  very  thin,  with  brass  rims  to  protect  the 
gas.  The  skill  was  in  calculating  the  range.  It 
was  fired  eighteen  miles  high  at  an  angle  of  66 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  21 

degrees.  The  rarified  atmosphere  at  this  tremen- 
dous height  offered  less  resistance  than  lower 
altitudes  and  the  shell  fell  at  an  angle  of  60  degrees. 

The  wonder  of  it  all  is  that  the  Germans  were 
able  to  find  the  target  and  make  their  calculations. 
They  could  not  change  their  aim  readily,  and 
that  is  why  the  shells  nearly  all  fell  in  one  particu- 
lar district  of  Paris,  and  why  there  were  busy 
times  moving  to  get  outside  of  the  firing  line. 
When  the  gun  was  silenced  for  a  few  nights,  there 
was  a  relief,  but  then  another  "Bertha"  bombed 
forth. 

When  the  residents  started  to  leave  the  city,  as 
this  big  gun  began  to  deposit  shells  with  frightful 
regularity,  some  of  the  French  defeatists  began 
crying,  "C'est  fini" — it  is  finished!"  They  prayed 
the  government  to  again  move  the  capital  to 
Bordeaux.  One  man  stood  adamant — it  was  the 
"Tiger" — Clemenceau.  In  the  turbulent  ups  and 
downs  of  his  stormy  public  life,  Clemenceau  had 
added  another  chapter  to  the  story  of  his 
career.  He  became  the  man  of  the  hour.  He 
refused  even  to  argue,  declaring,  "No,  this  is  the 
capital  of  France;  we  do  not  leave.  If  you  go, 
you  may  be  shot  as  deserters." 

The  crisis  passed,  for  Clemenceau  knows  no  fear. 


IV 


FACE   TO    FACE    WITH    CLEMENCEAU— 
"THE  TIGER" 

FOR  years  in  far-off  America  I  heard  of  a 
man,  prominent  in  French  affairs,  a  teacher 
in  a  New  England  institution  in  early  life, 
and  one  of  the  outstanding  figures  I  wished  to 
meet.  On  this  side  of  the  water  people  do  not 
realize  the  power  of  that  personality  in  the  present 
world  conflict.  The  moment  you  are  on  French 
soil,  among  the  soldiers  and  workers,  you  hear 
the  name  before  you  leave  the  dock.  It  gathers 
lustre  every  hour  of  your  journey  and  haunts 
you  after  you  have  come  away — and  that  name 
is  Clemenceau! 

On  the  train  I  met  a  peasant  woman  who  had  a 
basket  of  eggs.  She  gave  me  one,  and  together  we 
enjoyed  the  trick  of  sucking  the  contents  through 
a  pinhole — and  that  old  French  woman  voiced 
the  same  sentiment  when  she  said  to  my  inter- 
preter, "Tell  the  American  our  hope  is  in  Clemen- 
ceau."    Nearby  sat  a  pensive  young  woman  in 

(22) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  23 

weeds.  There  was  a  tender  melancholy  in  her 
dark  eyes  that  one  could  not  forget.  She  had 
been  suffering,  having  lost  her  husband,  father, 
and  four  brothers.  She  ate  her  simple  luncheon 
in  silence,  but  at  the  name  of  Clemenceau  her  eyes 
brightened.  Then,  too,  there  was  a  young  French 
boy  of  sixteen,  testing  his  English,  who  told  me, 
in  broken  accents,  young  as  he  was,  how  anxious 
he  was  to  take  the  place  of  his  father  who  was 
killed  at  the  Marne,  adding: 

"I  seem  to  hear  the  voice  of  Clemenceau  calling 
me  to  fight." 

In  the  cafes  and  on  the  streets  there  was  the 
same  talk  of  Clemenceau.  All  this  recalled  an 
interview  I  had  with  the  late  W.  T.  Stead  (who 
went  down  with  the  Titanic),  at  his  home  in 
Wimbledon,  in  England,  in  1906.  The  wizard 
interviewer  of  world  celebrities  referred  to  Clemen- 
ceau as  the  "Warwick  of  French  Politics." 

My  first  question  to  the  American  Ambassador 
in  Paris  was: 

"Do  you  think  you  could  arrange  for  me  to 
see  Clemenceau?" 

Mr.  Sharpe  replied:   "I'll  try— but  I  think  not." 

His  telephonic  message  to  the  W7ar  Department 
did  not  promise  much,  although  the  Ambassador 
sent  in  my  name  and  graciously  offered  to  go  with 


24  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

me  in  person.  Remembering  the  tribute  which 
"Boots"  had  paid  me,  I  was  still  determined  to  try. 

The  appearance  of  Clemenceau  in  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies  is  an  event,  and  the  people  flock  to 
hear  him  and  always  read  his  every  utterance. 
Seated  on  the  upper  bench,  ready  for  all  comers, 
shielding  himself  in  tantalizing  tersity,  Clemenceau 
fearlessly  meets  every  situation  face  to  face. 

More  by  chance  than  anything  else,  a  day  or 
two  later  I  wandered  into  the  Chamber  of  Depu- 
ties, an  ancient  building,  dating  back  to  the  time 
of  the  Louis'.  Large  throngs  were  waiting  for 
admittance  long  before  the  hour  the  Chamber 
convened,  many  of  them  speculating  what  Cle- 
menceau would  do.  The  admission  card  to  the 
gallery  from  the  Ambassador  acted  like  magic, 
for  the  usher,  in  evening  dress,  with  a  chain  about 
his  neck  (the  insignia  of  his  office),  conducted  me 
into  the  plush-lined  box  directly  opposite  the 
presiding  officer.  There  I  saw  the  members,  seated 
on  small  benches  rising  above  each  other  in  narrow 
tiers  which  formed  a  semi-circle.  The  glass  roof 
and  rather  dim  light  made  me  think  of  our  Ameri- 
can Senate  Chamber.  There  was  some  excitement 
in  the  debate,  although  it  involved  but  the  inter- 
pretation of  a  word  in  the  Pension  Bill,  as  to 
whether    a    soldier    should    have    a    pension    if 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  25 

imprudence  could  be  proved — the  old  question  of 
contributory  negligence.  The  members  did  not  rise 
during  a  colloquy  and  everybody  seemed  to  talk 
at  once,  without  the  courtesy  of  addressing  one 
another.  High  up  on  a  bench  sat  the  presiding 
officer  with  a  bell — not  unlike  the  old  dinner 
bell — which  he  would  ring  for  order  when  the 
discussion  became  too  riotous. 

While  I  could  not  understand  the  drift  of  the 
discussion,  action  and  gesture  spoke  louder  than 
words.  On  the  elevated  benches  behind  the 
speaker  were  the  few  members  of  the  cabinet. 
A  startling  revelation  came  to  me  as  I  glanced  over 
the  Chamber — there  was  no  flag  of  France  in 
sight — and  to  the  American  mind  this  was  a  shock, 
recalling  the  great  flag  which  hangs  in  the  House 
of  Representatives  and  the  American  devotion 
to  the  national  colors.  The  gallery  seemed  to  lack 
interest — for  Clemenceau  was  not  there. 

Where  he  was  I  did  not  know.  Perhaps  he  had 
been  putting  in  most  of  the  day  at  the  front,  for 
it  was  his  custom  to  go  out  at  dawn  and  hold 
conferences  with  Generals  Foch,  Petain  and  Persh- 
ing. He  forms  the  connecting  link  between  the 
armies  in  the  field  and  the  Chamber  of  Deputies. 
Whatever  he  finds  is  needed  at  the  front  he  goes 
to  the  Chamber  to  see  that  it  is  provided.     His 


26  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

visits  to  the  American  troops  are  memorable  occa- 
sions. The  American  boys  crowd  around  him  and 
he  has  a  greeting  for  all. 

The  Chamber  of  Deputies  meets  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  and  it  was  rare  in  the  old  days 
that  Clemenceau  did  not  appear.  Like  Mann  and 
Kitchen  of  the  House  of  Representatives,  or 
Gallinger  and  Overman  of  the  United  States 
Senate,  Clemenceau  seemed  to  know  every  feeling 
and  caprice  of  passing  legislation.  He  sensed 
the  hour  when  parliamentary  squalls  were  coming. 

From  the  boy  of  nineteen,  when  he  was  arrested 
at  the  foot  of  the  Bastile  column  for  shouting 
"Vive  la  Rcpublique"  on  to  the  time  when,  at  the 
siege  of  Paris,  he  returned  to  be  elected  maire 
of  the  18th  arrondissement,  and  even  up  to  the 
present,  he  was  being  fitted  for  the  glorious  sunset 
of  his  career.  The  allied  struggle  is  providing 
the  setting  for  the  admonition  which  his  father 
once  gave  him.  When  his  sire  was  arrested  at  the 
time  of  Napoleon's  coup  d'etat  in  1851,  young 
Clemenceau,  his  soul  aflame,  said  to  his  father: 
"Father,  I  will  avenge  you!"  "If  you  want  to 
avenge  me,"  cried  the  sire — "work."  Retiring 
at  eight  every  evening  and  rising  at  three  every 
morning,  it  may  be  questioned  if  any  other  man 
in  conspicuous  public  life  adds  greater  luster  to 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  27 

the  word  "work"  than  the  ever-active  French 
Premier. 

The  ups  and  downs  of  his  public  career  have 
been  many.  He,  with  others,  was  embroiled  in 
the  Panama  Canal  scandal,  but  he  came  out  un- 
scathed. He  laid  all  his  private  accounts  before 
his  accusers  which  revealed  that  he  had  even 
borrowed  money  of  a  notary  in  order  to  live,  and 
was  unable  to  give  his  daughter  a  marriage  portion, 
being  obliged  to  live  for  years  in  the  same  house, 
paying  for  his  furnishings  on  the  yearly  instalment 
plan. 

The  dramatic  story  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies 
for  the  last  forty-seven  years  finds  no  more  con- 
spicuous figure  than  Clemenceau.  He  belongs  to 
the  severe  French  school  of  literature.  In  speaking 
and  writing,  his  style  is  as  polished  as  a  rapier, 
and  he  meets  his  opponents  with  the  art  of  a 
fencer,  having  engaged  in  many  physical  duels. 

From  the  day,  seventy-seven  years  ago,  when 
he  was  born  in  Brittany,  in  the  little  village  of 
La  Vendee,  where  the  granite  promontory  thrusts 
itself  out  into  the  sea,  its  ragged  rocks  ever  battling 
with  wave  and  tide,  Clemenceau  has  exemplified 
in  private  and  public  life  those  rugged  physical 
and  mental  qualities  suggestive  of  the  place  of  his 
birth. 


28  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

As  I  wandered  back  through  the  corridors  and 
secured  my  hat  and  coat  from  the  check  room 
(the  same  as  leaving  a  theater),  I  went  down  to 
the  lobby  where  the  members  of  the  Chamber 
gather  after  adjournment.  Here  my  courier,  Pace, 
took  me  in  hand. 

I  told  him  I  must  see  Clemenceau.  He  shook 
his  head.  I  said  again  I  must.  He  took  my  re- 
marks literally,  and  almost  before  I  knew  it  we 
were  passing  through  an  old  corridor  alongside  a 
wall,  and  through  a  gate  into  another  ante-room. 
At  each  gate  my  passports  and  letters  were 
examined.  Finally  we  crossed  a  courtyard  and 
entered  a  rambling  low  building  which  was  the 
headquarters  of  the  Minister  de  Guerre.  As  Presi- 
dent of  the  Chamber,  the  Premier  of  France  is  the 
real  ruler  of  the  republic,  and  it  is  given  to  every 
premier  to  choose  his  own  portfolio.  Clemenceau 
naturally  decided  to  head  the  War  Department. 
Inside  another  room,  where  a  covered  billiard  table 
indicated  relaxation  in  peace  days,  my  card  was 
again  taken  in,  and  I  indulged  in  a  hurried 
glance  around.  A  voice  speaking  in  English  in 
the  adjoining  room  was  heard.  Just  then  the 
same  voice  was  saying;  and  supplementing  the 
words  in  French;  "That's  persistence;  show  him 
in." 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  29 

Little  did  I  realize  that  this  was  the  voice  of 
Clemenceau. 

I  entered  a  somewhat  darkened  room.  In  an 
open  grate  smoldered  a  dingy  coal  fire.  A  medium- 
sized  figure  was  moving  toward  me.  On  his  head 
was  a  small,  round  hat  with  triangular  earlaps 
tied  overhead.  As  I  neared  I  saw  a  certain  ironical 
smile  on  his  face.  But  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
countenance.  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it, 
I  was  face  to  face  with  Clemenceau — "the  Tiger." 

I  had  no  sooner  extended  greetings  from  America 
than  immediately  a  warm  hand  was  thrust  into 
mine,  and  he  said,  with  a  power  which  thrilled  me: 
"I  love  America."  Clemenceau  is  not  a  man  of 
words.  In  no  sense  does  he  pass  for  what  is  called 
a  polite  man.  Yet  there  was  such  a  ring  of  sin- 
cerity in  his  words  that  I  was  strongly  drawn 
to  him. 

When  I  announced  that  I  was  in  France  to  get 
some  good  stuff  for  the  American  people  to  read, 
and  asked  him  what  he  read,  he  interrupted 
quickly,  saying: 

"Read?  I  read  nothing.  Newspapers,  maga- 
zines, nothing!  This  is  no  time  for  me  to  read — 
it  is  time  to  work  and  act — work  to  win  the  war." 

As  his  clear,  and  to  me  surprisingly,  epigram- 
matic English  fell  on  my  ears,  I  was  ready  myself 


30  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

to  go  out  and  fight  for  this  man.  With  a  wave  of 
his  hand,  he  proffered  a  chair.  In  seeking  for  some 
common  ground  on  which  to  stand,  I  found  myself 
searching  for  a  touch  of  gentleness  which  he 
had  portrayed  in  the  one  novel  ("Le  Plus  Fort") 
which  he  has  written  on  the  philosophy  of 
superman. 

As  he  squared  himself  and  I  looked  into  his  eyes, 
I  saw  a  face  of  rugged  strength.  I  recalled  his 
christening  with  the  sobriquet  which  he  bears 
today.  As  Clemenceau  entered  his  editorial  den 
one  night,  a  French  journalist  turned  to  his  friends 
and  said:  "Here  comes  the  Tiger."  And  from 
that  day  to  this  the  name  has  been  spelled  with  a 
big  T  rather  than  a  little  one. 

His  face  is  round,  made  massive  by  high  cheek 
bones,  his  eyes,  deep-set,  flash  with  the  glint  of 
steel,  though  at  times  are  liquid  with  tenderness. 
His  brow  is  broad  and  high.  A  drooping  mus- 
tache covers  what  I  knew  to  be  a  strong  mouth. 
His  head  is  bald,  set  off  at  the  height  of  his  ears 
by  silken  gray  hair.  His  gestures  consisted  largely 
of  a  sweep  of  the  hand  across  and  in  front  of  him, 
as  if  pointing  out  the  whole  field  of  action.  Occa- 
sionally he  brought  his  fists  down  like  a  hammer, 
every  movement  indicating  a  dynamic  man,  full  of 
power  and  electric  energy.    The  wisdom  of  age  and 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  31 

the  strength  of  youth  in  rare  combination.  No 
wonder  Germany  fears  him! 

Some  who  have  talked  with  him  have  remarked 
about  his  flippancy.  There  was  none  of  it  apparent 
in  my  glimpse  of  the  man.  He  was  in  dead  earnest 
about  everything.  The  only  trace  of  lightness  in 
his  speech  was  when  I  pointed  to  a  portrait  on 
the  wall  saying: 

"A  great  man,  I  suppose?" 

"An  ass!"  he  jerked. 

Pointing  to  another,  he  anticipated  my  question, 
and  said: 

"A  very  great  man.    We  must  have  contrasts." 

"Our  American  boys  are  arriving,"  I  ventured. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "and  they  are  learning  to  dig, 
like  our  own  Poilus.  It  is  better  to  lose  four  men 
than  four  hundred." 

His  secretary  entered  and  said  something  to 
him.  Then  I  noticed  the  clear,  legible  writing  of 
the  Premier  as  he  made  a  few  notes.  When  I  indi- 
cated that  I  sometimes  made  speeches,  he  said: 

"I  make  no  more  speeches.  It  is  time  to  work. 
No  time  to  talk.    'Yes'  and  'No'  cover  essentials." 

Evidently  he  carries  out  that  conviction.  At 
the  Allied  Conference  in  Paris,  the  one  man  who 
could  have  talked  made  the  shortest  speech  on 
record.    "We're  here  to  work;   let  us  work." 


32  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

When  the  question  of  politics  seeped  into  our 
conversation  he  snapped,  "I  do  not  like  politicians, 
I  like  patriots." 

No  wonder  the  French  people  recalled  him  to 
lead  their  destinies  in  this,  their  hour  of  greatest 
crisis!  A  hater  of  shams,  a  lover  of  realities,  a 
patriot,  in  no  sense  a  partisan,  this  Spartan  has 
only  one  consideration — his  country. 

How  fortunate,  indeed,  is  France  to  have  him. 
His  active  life  covers  two  great  wars.  When  the 
King  Charles'  peace  letter,  making  overtures 
looking  toward  the  autonomy  of  Alsace-Lorraine 
was  mentioned,  he  said: 

"I  know  the  German  tricks — and  so  does  the 
United  States." 

He  probably,  as  no  other  living  man,  is  alert 
for  Prussian  intrigues.  Schooled  in  literature,  in 
medicine,  in  science,  in  politics,  in  diplomacy,  he 
brings  his  vast  knowledge  to  bear  on  the  one 
vital  purpose — the  triumph  of  Democracy. 

As  I  saw  him,  whether  standing,  sitting  in  a 
chair,  or  perched  on  the  edge  of  a  table  dangling 
his  feet,  he  acted  as  if  he  were  accustomed  to 
premiership. 

Some  dispatches  were  brought  in.  Taking  them 
up,  he  made  his  notations  on  each  with  a  plebeian 
lead  pencil — a  word  or  two  at  most — and  passed 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

PREMIER  CLEMENCEAU  OF  FRANCE 


Copyright  by  American  Press  Association 

FRENCH  "75"  BOMBARDING  GERMANTTRENCH 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

CLEMENCEAU,  "THE  TIGER,"  REVIEWING  BRITISH  TROOPS 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  33 

them  on.  No  fuss,  no  haste.  Every  movement 
strong,  determined,  clear.  "I  may  be  dead,"  he 
said,  glancing  up,  "when  this  war  is  won,  but — it 
will  be  won!" 

I  ventured  to  ask  him  if  he  had  met  any  of  the 
Commission  from  America  looking  toward  post- 
war conditions. 

4 'Yes,"  he  said,  "but  this  is  not  the  time  for  me 
to  think  of  that.    The  work  of  the  war  comes  first." 

Then  drawing  his  chair  so  close  to  me  that  his 
knees  touched  mine,  putting  one  hand  on  my 
shoulder  and  clenching  his  fist,  he  assumed  an 
attitude  like  that  of  the  tiger  he  is.  There  was 
fire  in  his  eyes.    His  great  jaw  set;  he  said: 

"It  is  the  supreme  thing  in  my  life  to  win  the 
war." 

I  arose  to  go.  The  slanting  sun  shone  through 
the  window  of  the  old  building. 

"Have  you  any  message  to  send  to  America?" 
I  ventured. 

With  a  pathos  like  that  of  a  benediction  and  as 
comforting,  he  said: 

"Tell  them  I  love  America." 


WITH   PERSHING  AND  HIS   MEN 


NATURALLY  the  first  man  I  wanted  to  see 
on  arriving  in  France  was  General  John  J. 
Pershing.  What  American  wouldn't?  For- 
tunately for  me,  he  had  just  arrived  in  Paris  from 
the  front.  The  message  that  he  would  see  me  no 
sooner  came  than  I  was  off. 

His  pretentious  headquarters  are  located  in  the 
palace  built  by  Napoleon's  old  guard,  Marshal 
Lanes.  The  monogram  M.  L.  still  stands  in  the 
gable  of  the  roof.  The  approach  is  by  a  crescent 
driveway.  A  great  array  of  chalk-covered  auto- 
mobiles stood  about,  giving  evidence  of  having 
just  come  in  from  the  front.  The  house  is  owned 
by  Mrs.  Ogden  Reed  of  New  York,  who  graciously 
turned  it  over  to  the  government  for  General 
Pershing's  headquarters. 

As  you  enter  the  spacious  reception  hall,  an 
information  desk  stands  at  the  extreme  end  and 
over  it  on  one  side  is  the  tri-color  of  France,  and 

(34) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  35 

on  the  other  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  so  placed  that 
their  folds  join  in  clinging  embrace — eloquent 
emblems  of  the  affectionate  unity  of  the  two 
republics. 

Colonel  Boyd  met  me  and  took  me  for  a  hurried 
glance  around.  The  pictures  hanging  on  the 
walls  were  covered,  as  was  also  the  luxurious 
furniture.  All  the  splendor  of  the  old  palace  was 
shrouded  in  the  gray  monotone  of  war  times. 

Through  one  of  the  rooms  used  with  others  for 
conferences,  I  was  conducted  to  the  rear  and  into 
a  luxuriant  rustic  garden — the  scene  of  many  a 
social  function  in  the  old  Empire  days.  In  the 
center  stood  a  small  tea-house  surrounded  with 
irregular  benches.  Trees  of  great  age  pushed  out 
of  the  sod.  Shrubs  graced  the  nooks  and  walks. 
All  were  resplendent  in  golden  spring  green. 
Birds  even  were  singing  in  the  trees.  It  was  a 
delightful  sylvan  retreat  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris. 

It  was  in  the  dining-room  to  the  right  of  the 
reception  hall  that  I  stood  in  the  presence  of  Gen- 
eral Pershing — the  man  on  whom  rest  the  eyes 
of  all  America.  Can  I  ever  forget  the  moment  or 
the  wave  of  emotion  which  swept  over  me!  As 
he  advanced  to  greet  me,  I  forgot  for  the  time  the 
great  general  he  was.  His  manner  was  so  simple,  so 
cordial,  so  characteristically  American,  he  seemed 


36  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

more  like  a  brother.  Clad  in  a  plain  khaki 
uniform  adorned  simply  with  the  insignia  of  his 
rank,  on  his  breast  was  the  prismatic  service 
ribbon.  The  fine  lines  of  his  face  were  drawn  into 
a  determination  I  had  never  before  seen.  Even 
his  mustache  was  croppy  and  bristling.  His 
movements  and  words  were  few.  Responsibility 
rested  heavily  upon  him.  Yet  underneath  all 
radiated  a  marked  tenderness  and  gentle  regard. 

Every  moment  of  his  time  contained  such  a 
deposit  of  duty  that  I  merely  told  him  I  was 
the  bearer  of  a  flag  sent  by  the  women  of  Boston 
for  the  26th  Division.  I  recited  to  him  the  occa- 
sion when,  at  a  brilliant  military  ball  at  the  Copley- 
Plaza  in  Boston,  the  commission  to  deliver  the 
flag  was  imposed  upon  me.  He  had  received 
newspaper  clippings  of  the  event  and  was  some- 
what familiar  with  the  import  of  my  mission. 
When  I  told  him  that  in  speaking  on  this  occasion 
I  had  talked  on  "Chivalry,"  he  arose  quickly  from 
the  round  table  and  impassionately  said :  "Chival- 
ry— that's  the  thing!  There  is  not  a  man  in  the 
ranks  who  has  not  the  thought  of  some  woman  in 
his  breast,  and  that  woman  is  thinking  of  him. 
That's  the  anchorage  of  the  American  Army 
today — the  American  woman." 

Then  relaxing  for  a  moment,  as  if  duty  called, 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  37 

he  said:  "Are  you  ready  to  go  to  the  front?"  I 
assented.  Suddenly  pointing  outside,  he  said: 
"See  this  beautiful  garden.  Here  is  my  oasis.  I 
come  here  often  for  a  glimpse  of  this  restful  spot, 
even  for  only  a  moment,  before  returning  to  the 
chalky  roads  which  lead  to  the  front." 

We  turned  away  from  the  garden  to  the 
dining-room.  On  the  table,  among  other  things, 
was  a  pie  sent  by  an  American  woman  for  the 
General. 

"That  brings  back  visions  of  old  Missouri," 
said  the  General.  And  for  the  first,  and  only  time 
I  think,  I  saw  a  smile  on  his  face. 

Just  at  this  time  a  message  came  for  him.  I 
saw  the  lines  deepen  on  his  face  as  he  said,  "I 
must  be  off  to  the  front." 

The  world  will  not  soon  forget  his  speech  to 
Generalissimo  Foch,  delivered  during  those  memor- 
able days  in  March  and  April,  1918,  when  the 
German  waves  were  washing  over  the  barriers 
of  the  British  and  French,  and  when,  sinking  all 
pride  in  his  own  separate  army,  he  offered  all  the 
forces  of  the  United  States  in  what  are  destined 
to  be  immortal  words:  "Do  with  us  as  you  like." 
That  utterance  will  live  alongside  Lincoln's  Gettys- 
burg speech  as  long  as  American  history  is  recited. 

It  was  made  on  March  28th,  the  darkest  day 


38  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

of  the  war,  and  was  magical  in  its  effect  on  France 
and  the  Allies. 

( Translation ) 
"DO  WITH  US  AS  YOU  LIKE" 

In  the  course  of  a  reunion,  which  was  held  on  the  18th 
of  March,  1918,  at  the  front,  to  which  General  Petain, 
M.  Clemenceau  and  M.  Loucheur  were  present,  General 
Pershing  was  presented  to  General  Foch  and  said  to  him: 

"I  come  to  say  to  you  that  the  American  people  will 
consider  it  a  great  honor  that  our  troops  may  engage  in 
the  present  battle.  I  ask  it  in  my  name  and  in  theirs.  At 
this  time  there  is  no  question  but  to  fight.  The  infantry, 
the  artillery,  and  the  aviation — all  that  we  have,  is  yours. 
Do  with  us  as  you  like.  Other  troops  will  be  coming  in 
such  numbers  as  will  be  found  necessary. 

"I  am  come  expressly  to  say  to  you  that  the  American 
people  will  be  proud  to  engage  in  this  greatest  battle  of 
history." 

Pershing's  speech  has  been  printed  in  French 
on  a  small  card  which  just  fits  into  the  pocket. 
The  General's  picture  is  at  the  top  and  underneath 
the  famous  sentence,  "Do  with  us  as  you  like." 
It  is  not  an  unusual  thing  to  see  soldiers  take 
this  card  out  of  their  pockets  saying,  "This  is  our 
French  text-book." 

Shortly  after  my  arrival,  I  met  a  young  officer 
who  had  returned  from  one  of  the  gatherings  where 
Pershing  delivered  one  of  his  classic  addresses  to 
his  officers.    His  face  was  aglow.    He  said:  "Any- 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  39 

one  who  wouldn't  be  ready  to  go  to  glory  for  the 
old  flag  after  hearing  Pershing  talk  is  not  an 
American." 

Other  officers,  as  they  came  out  of  the  barracks, 
were  imbued  with  the  same  spirit,  and  in  them 
there  was  evidence  of  a  reconsecration  to  a  great 
cause. 

To  read  his  famous  speech  to  Foch,  one  can 
easily  imagine  the  kind  of  talk  he  gives  to  his 
officers. 

Leaving  the  headquarters,  I  made  my  way 
to  the  office  of  the  Provost  Marshal  at  Rue  Ste. 
Anne,  located  in  an  old  hotel.  Every  American 
who  goes  to  the  war  zone  and  every  soldier  who 
comes  to  Paris  must  report  here.  I  wanted  a 
military  pass  to  the  zone  of  operations.  It  was 
given  only  after  every  detail  had  been  covered. 
It  was  stamped  and  re-stamped.  Here  all  the 
American  communiques  are  given  out,  and  the 
censoring  of  mail  is  done.  While  standing  there  I 
heard  a  colonel  giving  and  saw  officers  receiving 
telephone  messages  from  the  front.  It  was  as  if 
they  were  talking  with  some  one  in  a  far-off  land, 
and  in  my  imagination  I  could  almost  hear  the 
roar  of  the  cannon. 

Scattered  along  the  streets  were  American 
soldiers,  the  first  I  had  seen  in  any  considerable 


40  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

numbers.  Only  one  thousand  American  soldiers 
are  allowed  in  Paris  at  a  time.  In  the  hotel  I  saw 
them  sitting  at  a  big  mess  table  eating  their  chow. 

Ste.  Anne's  is  the  first  place  soldiers  go  on 
arriving  in  France,  and  it  is  a  jocular  saying 
commonly  heard  among  newcomers,  "Have  you 
been  up  to  Anne's?" 

Once  out  on  the  boulevard  I  made  haste  for  the 
train.  American  soldiers  with  bands  marked 
M.  P.  on  their  arms  looked  up  in  surprise  when  I 
approached.  They  did  not  expect  to  see  an 
American  in  civilian  clothes.  When  addressed 
they  would  smile  and  say:  "When  did  you  arrive?" 
"When  do  you  expect  to  go  back  home?" 

I  came  near  missing  my  train  in  taking  the 
addresses  of  those  to  whom  they  wished  to  be 
remembered. 

As  I  passed  Hotel  Mediterranean  it  seemed 
familiar  to  see  soldiers  from  the  Quartermaster's 
Department  playing  baseball  in  the  park.  Though 
I  had  but  a  moment,  I  could  not  resist  pausing 
and  joining  in  the  well-known  shouts.  Reaching 
the  gate  at  the  station,  I  found  to  my  embarass- 
ment  I  had  stowed  away  my  pass  so  carefully  that 
not  until  I  had  turned  some  twenty-two  pockets 
inside  out,  could  I  find  it,  and  then  it  was  in  the 
first  pocket  I  had  searched.    Such  is  the  perversity 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  41 

of  a  military  pass.  Because  I  kept  the  procession 
waiting,  the  gate-keeper  directed  somewhat  em- 
phatic French  at  me. 

Once  on  the  train,  I  found  myself  surrounded 
with  soldiers,  one  of  whom  was  a  lieutenant  from 
Minnesota.  On  his  arm  were  two  stripes,  in- 
dicating that  he  had  already  been  wounded 
twice  at  the  front.  I  listened  to  the  incidents 
he  told  in  open-mouthed  wonder,  yet  they  were 
related  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way. 

At  last  I  was  off  to  the  front.  A  fever  of 
interest  grew  with  every  mile.  In  a  short  time 
we  were  skirting  the  Marne,  looking  at  the  now 
historic  battlefield  where  the  surging  tides  of  steel 
had  met.  The  early  spring  verdure  was  aglow 
and  Nature  was  making  a  brave  attempt  to  hide 
the  ugly  scars  of  the  terrible  conflict.  Here  and 
there  was  a  clump  of  trees,  their  white  hearts  still 
torn  open  as  if  to  indicate  where  the  scourge 
swept  on.  There  were  the  roads  along  which 
Galleni's  hastily  organized  taxi-cab  troops  rushed 
at  the  critical  moment  to  stem  the  helmeted  Hun 
and  save  Paris.  Later  I  stood  in  the  fields  where 
hundreds  of  thousands  had  died.  The  Marne 
coursed  its  way  onward  to  the  sea  placid  and 
serene,  giving  little  indication  of  the  tumult  that 
had  surged  around  it.    At  far-off  Amiens  and  Arras 


42  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  guns  were  booming  in  the  effort  to  check  the 
thrust  toward  the  Channel. 

Winding  our  way  through  the  valleys,  there 
were  fresh  evidences  of  war's  devastation.  On 
the  little  railroads  flat  cars  loaded  with  men  and 
guns  were  making  their  way  toward  the  battle 
front;  on  other  trains  French  troops  on  a  furlough 
were  going  home. 

Leaving  the  train  at  Gondrecourt,  we  took  a 
motor  for  the  zone  of  operations.  Out  across 
flat  plains,  suggestive  of  the  prairies  of  Dakota, 
our  car  sped  on.  The  distant  boom  of  the  guns, 
faint  at  first,  increased  in  number  and  tone  with 
every  mile  of  the  journey.  Now  and  then  our  car 
would  edge  past  lines  of  troops  going  to  the  front — 
and  they  were  our  boys,  too!  As  I  went  by  I  felt 
ashamed  to  ride.  I  wanted  to  get  out  and  walk 
with  them.  Then  we  would  encounter  artillery 
as  it  rattled  along.  The  soldiers  always  saluted 
and  we  felt  proud  to  return  it.  Sometimes  I  saw 
them  in  the  French  villages  fraternizing  with  the 
natives,  picking  up  and  exchanging  phrases  and 
winning  popularity.  Now  and  then  motor-cycles 
flew  on,  the  riders  covered  with  white  chalk  of  the 
roads.  Orderlies,  goggle-eyed  and  dust-covered, 
looked  like  beetles  as  they  whirred  away  to  and 
from  headquarters. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  43 

This  was  the  Valley  of  the  Meuse,  dotted  with 
farm-houses  that  were  grouped  in  little  villages.  At 
Domremy  we  found  the  birthplace  of  Jeanne  d'Arc. 

"Let's  sing  it,"  suggested  Bristol,  and  out  rang 
the  popular  song  of  "Joan  of  Arc."  It  ended  with 
the  stirring  refrain  of  the  "Marseillaise." 

Approaching  farms,  it  was  rather  shocking  to 
the  esthetic  taste  to  find  manure  piles  in  the  front 
yard  rather  than  in  the  rear  of  the  barn  as  in 
America.  Yet  the  question  of  fertilizer  is  an 
important  one,  and  the  size  of  the  manure  heap  is 
an  indication  of  the  wealth  of  the  farmer.  The 
natives  seem  to  be  well  accustomed  to  living 
rooms  adjoining  stables. 

It  was  in  this  primitive  village,  far  from  the 
gay  life  of  the  city,  that  the  Maid  of  Orleans  was 
born.  Her  home  stands  sheltered  by  a  group  of 
scraggly  trees.  Children  were  playing  in  the  yard, 
seemingly  all  unconscious  of  the  historic  setting. 
Nearby  is  the  church  where  she  was  baptized, 
while  yonder  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  stand  the 
beautiful  memorial  towers  erected  on  the  spot 
where  she  saw  the  vision  and  went  away  to 
lead  the  armies  of  France.  Here  the  flower  of 
young  American  manhood  was  coming  to  shed  its 
blood  to  help  save  the  France  she  had  defended. 
In  this  sector  held  by  American  troops,  the  spirit 


44  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

of  Jeanne  d'Arc  will  linger  and  find  a  worthy 
reincarnation  in  the  soldiers  from  over  seas. 

After  two  hours'  ride  over  circular  roads  and 
across  wide  stretching  plains,  through  village  after 
village,  we  came  at  last  to  Neuf chateau.  The  first 
Yankee  Division  was  stationed  here.  The  quaint 
little  old  buildings,  shops  and  courtways  are  today 
familiar  objects  to  our  American  soldiers.  The 
"M.  P."  is  at  the  street  corners  directing  the 
surging  traffic  the  same  as  on  Broadway.  Every- 
thing in  the  army  is  designated  by  initials.  Over 
one  office  is  the  "A.  O.,"  and  over  another  "C.  O." 
and  so  on,  each  combination  having  its  own 
meaning. 

At  Neufchateau  the  billets  of  the  American 
soldiers  were  in  barns  where  cattle  had  previously 
been  stabled.  With  customary  regard  for  sanitary 
conditions,  these  structures  had  been  cleaned 
until  the  group  of  buildings  resembled  a  dairy 
lunch  kitchen. 

At  Boucq  I  visited  the  quarters  of  Sibley,  of 
the  Boston  Globe.  It  furnishes  a  good  sample  of 
the  billets  occupied  by  some  soldiers.  It  is  situ- 
ated on  a  crag  at  the  corner  of  a  road.  A  narrow 
hall  runs  through  the  middle  of  the  building, 
opening  off  of  which  is  Sib's  bedroom.  Directly 
across  the  hall  on  the  same  floor  is  the  cow's  room. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  45 

Chickens  have  the  right  of  way  in  the  houses. 
When  "Sib"  retired  the  previous  night  he  found 
two  chickens  roosting  on  the  high  post  at  the  head 
of  the  bed. 

Standing  on  the  high  hill  or  parapet  at  Boucq 
at  night  and  overlooking  the  Valley  of  the  Meuse, 
I  had  my  first  glimpse  of  a  creeping  barrage.  In 
the  distant  darkness  the  line  of  fire  could  be  clearly 
seen.  It  was  like  spraying  fluid  flame  from  a 
nozzle  or  a  crackling  prairie  fire.  It  was  one  of 
the  most  haunting  spectacles  I  ever  witnessed. 
On  the  night  of  my  arrival  at  Neufchateau  I 
thought  I  might  have  to  come  back  to  headquar- 
ters, but  my  chauffeur  told  me  I  could  stay  with 
him.  He  was  from  Waco,  Texas.  He  said:  "I 
came  down  here  to  break  horses  for  the  cavalry, 
but  there  is  no  cavalry  and  so  I  am  breaking 
automobiles  instead." 

It  was  dark  when  we  set  out  for  what  he  spoke 
of  as  his  sleeping  quarters.  We  had  no  lights,  and 
he  drove  with  a  devil-may-care  spirit,  making  the 
telephone  poles  whizz  past  in  a  continuous  stream, 
and  lighting  up  the  darkness  with  lurid  profanity, 
arriving  in  front  of  a  pretentious  stone  house  at 
one  a.m.  Going  in  he  led  me  to  the  front  room  in 
which  there  was  a  piano,  paintings  on  the  walls, 
and  a  carpet  on  the  floor.     On  one  side  stood  a 


46  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

high-posted  ancestral  bed  and  on  it  I  noticed  an 
eiderdown   quilt.     "This  is  my  room,"   he  said. 

"How  do  you  manage  it?"  I  queried. 

"Oh,  a  snap,"  he  answered.  "Room  and  break- 
fast, eight  francs  a  week!" 

In  the  morning  I  learned  the  reason.  There  was 
a  knock  at  the  door  and  the  kindly-faced  matron, 
wife  of  a  French  captain  at  the  front,  appeared 
to  ascertain  why  my  companion  was  still  sleeping. 
I  was  up  and  shaving.  Going  to  the  bed  and 
waking  him  with  motherly  solicitude,  she  pointed 
to  the  clock  to  signify  he  was  late  in  getting  up. 
In  his  broken  French  he  tried  to  tell  her  that 
he  was  late  in  getting  in.  Quickly  jumping  into 
his  clothes  and  while  winding  his  puttees,  three 
girls  passed  the  door  which  the  elderly  woman 
had  left  open.  They  called  out  to  my  companion, 
"Bonjour!  Monsieur."  And  then,  as  if  to  explain 
how  he  happened  to  have  such  quarters,  he  said: 
"I'm  engaged  to  one  of  them,  but  I'll  be  darned 
if  I  know  which  one  it  is." 

But  a  night  in  the  trenches!  There's  not  much 
humor  there.  It  was  sable  night  as  I  entered.  I 
could  have  wished  for  a  moon,  but  that  would 
mean  a  raid.  The  stars  shone  with  double  magni- 
tude. It  was  gruesome  business  stumbling  over  the 
duck  boards,  perhaps  missing  and  going  knee-deep 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  47 

in  the  mud.  Except  for  an  occasional  sentry, 
there  is  next  to  nothing  to  see  or  do  except  just 
grope.  Even  after  the  sentry  gets  your  password 
and  spirits  himself  into  darkness,  there  is  no  sound 
save  splashing  feet. 

Coming  to  the  first  firing  shelf,  it  may  be  that 
Fritz  has  accommodatingly  thrown  up  a  flare, 
revealing  a  white  face  peering  into  the  lighted 
gloom — but  even  he  does  not  turn  to  look.  The 
Germans  have  a  star-shell  with  a  parachute,  which 
floats  over  the  lines  for  a  long  time — a  devilish 
contrivance,  lending  picturesqueness  to  the  scene. 
Firing  posts  multiply,  and  in  each  there  are  eyes 
watching,  not  you,  but  out  into  the  darkness. 

Moving  on  you  know  there  are  countless  sol- 
diers near,  but  you  see  them  not.  They  are  down 
in  the  dugouts  asleep,  or  consuming  the  smoke  of 
a  smouldering  fire.  A  night  in  the  trenches!  The 
tensity  of  it  all  no  tongue  can  tell! 

And  dawn?  How  eagerly  eyes  look  for  the  first 
spires  of  light  in  the  distant  horizon!  In  that 
semi-darkness  it  is  as  if  you  were  looking  over  a 
dead  sea — wave  after  wave  rolls  away,  but  all 
are  motionless. 

Imagination  works  on  high  speed,  and  over  that 
field  of  death  Boches  are  coming  straight  toward 
you,  not  one  but  many.    The  plop  of  the  machine 


48  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

gun,  the  waking  mortar,  the  whinny  of  the  bullet 
causes  a  heart  throb  to  answer  every  explosion. 
No  wonder  eager  eyes  look  for  the  dawn! 

One  soldier  said  to  me,  "I've  seen  more  sunrises 
in  France  than  I  ever  saw  in  my  whole  life  before." 

Yet  even  in  the  trenches  there  is  some  humor. 
One  incident  I  shall  never  forget.  Seated  on 
one  of  the  sand  bags  was  a  soldier  who  proved  to 
be  a  Scotchman.  He  was  distinguished  from  the 
others  by  the  sweep  of  his  hand  downward  and 
over  his  coat.  At  first  I  thought  he  was  brushing 
off  the  dust  and  the  mud,  but  while  I  watched  the 
wincing  movements  of  his  shoulders,  I  suspected 
it  was  something  else.  It  dawned  upon  me  in  a 
jiffy — they  were  "cooties."  As  he  continued 
brushing,   I  said,   "Getting  rid  of  them,  Jock?" 

With  a  rich  Scotch  burr,  he  replied,  "Oh  no; 
just  taking  them  as  they  come." 

Aside  from  the  mud,  it  was  about  the  only  thing 
I  brought  away  from  the  trenches.  Jock  was 
getting  ready  to  go  back  of  the  lines  for  a  "dip," 
which  means  that  while  he  is  getting  his  "dip," 
his  clothes  are  "dipped"  also. 

As  I  came  away,  the  air  was  filled  with  planes, 
circling  to  and  fro  and  humming  like  a  reaper  in  a 
distant  harvest  field,  taking,  it  may  be,  their  toll 
of  death.    Sausage  balloons  were  forming  a  line  in 


DISPOSEZ  DE  NOUS 
COMME    IL   VOUS   PLAIRA 

Au  cours  d'une  reunion  qui  fut  tenue  le  28  mars  1918, 
sur  le  front  et  a  laquelle  assistaient  le  general  Petain, 
M.  Clemenceau  et  M.  Loucheur,  le  general  Pershing 
s'est  presente  au  general  Foch  et  Iui  a  dit: 

Je  viens  pour  vous  dire  que  le  peuple  ameri- 
cain  tiendrait  a  grand  honneur  que  nos  troupes 
fussent  engagees  dans  la  presente  bataille.  Je  vous 
le  demande  en  mon  nom  et  au  sien.  II  n'y  a  pas 
en  ce  moment  d'autre  question  que  de  combattre. 
L'infanterie,  l'artillerie,  l'aviation,  tout  ce  que  nous 
avons  est  a  vous.  Disposez-en  comme  il  vousplaira. 
II  en  viendra  encore  d'autres,  aussi  nombreux 
qu'il  sera  necessaire. 

Je  suis  venu  tout  expres  pour  vous  dire  que  le 
peuple  americain  serait  fier  d'etre  engage  dans  la 
plus  belle  bataille  de*  l'Histoire. 


"DO  WITH  US  AS  YOU  LIKE" 

Printed  in  French,  these  famous  words  of  Pershing's  are  given  wide 

circulation  (See  page  38) 


Copyright  by  Committee  on  Public  Information 

GENERAL  JOHN  J.   ("FIGHTING  JACK")    PERSHING 

The  telegram  he  is  reading  interests  him — it  tells  of  an  American  advance 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  49 

the  sky,  indicating  the  battle  line  below.  With 
sky  alive  with  destruction,  and  earth  rocking  with 
explosives,  I  needed  nothing  more  to  realize — this 
was  war. 


VI 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  TROOPS 
IN  A  GAS  MASK 

AFTER  a  few  hours  in  the  zone  of  operations, 
I  began  to  feel  like  a  regular  soldier,  for  I 
was  now  given  my  own  gas  mask,  duly 
initialed.  Soldiers  are  as  careful  about  their  gas 
masks  as  they  are  about  their  tooth  brushes.  Woe 
to  the  man  who  appropriates  another's  gas  mask, 
or  carries  off  his  match  box — an  unwritten  law 
soon  learned. 

On  this  day  everyone  was  ordered  to  take  his 
gas  mask.  There  was  a  full  attendance  at  the 
rehearsal,  the  time  consumed  in  adjusting  it 
varying  from  four  to  forty  seconds.  The  forties 
were  left  behind. 

Only  one  in  the  party  was  ununiformed,  but  he 
had  qualified,  and  when  they  saw  him  sailing  past 
in  the  motor  car,  the  coat  tails  of  his  summer 
overcoat  flying,  they  said:  "He  looks  like  a  real 
lady." 

The    mask    is    carried    in    a    knapsack,    slung 

(50) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  51 

over  the  shoulder  like  a  hunter's  pouch.  Some 
of  the  soldiers  had  two,  a  short-lived  one  for  emer- 
gency, and  another  capable  of  enduring  for  a 
longer  period. 

I  began  experimenting  with  my  gas  mask  to  see 
if  I  could  break  my  record  of  twenty-three.  The 
same  shudder  came  over  me  as  I  adjusted  it  and 
took  the  rubber  bit  in  my  teeth,  for  it  must  be 
held  firmly  in  the  mouth.  The  nose  grip  put  an 
end  to  any  breathing  I  had  known  before.  All 
air  must  come  through  the  neutralizer  and  be 
drawn  into  the  mouth  through  the  rubber  tube. 
The  first  sensation  is  that  of  smothering,  especially 
if  the  contrivance  is  not  adjusted  properly. 

Remembering  my  speech  of  the  night  before, 
one  of  the  lieutenants  said:  "Now  we've  got  you 
fixed  properly;  we're  protected  for  awhile  anyhow." 

I  had  just  taken  it  off,  saying,  "What's  the 
use  of  practicing  when  there's  no  chance  to  use 
it?"    Our  motor  buzzed  on. 

Our  laughter  suddenly  ceased.  For  through 
the  air  came  a  strange  sound,  an  intermittent 
"zip,"  "zip,"  "zip."  The  chauffeur  chucked  on 
the  emergency,  shouting,  "There's  a  gas  shell 
now!  Dive  quick!"  The  masks  were  on  before 
we  reached  the  ground.  In  a  ditch  by  the  side  of 
the  road,  close  to  Mother  Earth,  we  waited. 


52  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Lying  face  down,  looking  through  the  goggles 
at  the  beetles  in  the  grass,  I  had  never  been  so 
close  to  nature  before.  Just  then  I  felt  like  bugs  and 
little  ants,  with  whom  I  had  something  in  common. 
I  had  often  used  the  expression  "Mother  Earth," 
but  had  never  understood  it  before.  For  the  first 
time  I  realized  that  it  would  not  be  so  hard  to 
be  buried  in  her  arms  after  all.  For  was  she  not 
even  now  protecting  me  from  Heinie's  mustard 
gas? 

Feeling  a  little  cramped,  I  found  courage  to 
move  one  leg,  when  I  heard  something — a  "z-zish- 
h-h-h"  in  the  air — which  sounded  like  the  Twen- 
tieth Century  Limited  rushing  by.  Again  I  sought 
a  closer  acquaintance  with  the  creeping  things 
and  dirt. 

It  was  not  necessary  for  anyone  to  tell  me  that 
it  was  a  '75  or  better.  It  doesn't  take  long  to 
learn  the  peculiar  song  of  the  shells. 

My  close  study  in  entomology,  which  seemed 
hours  in  duration,  was  interrupted  by  the  lieuten- 
ant, who  called  out,  "All  clear."  When  I  pulled 
off  the  mask,  just  common  air  never  seemed  so 
good  before. 

The  roads  were  lined  with  piles  of  crushed 
stone  to  be  used  for  repair  at  a  moment's  notice. 
Trees   planted   by   order   of  Napoleon  had   been 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  53 

ruthlessly  cut  down  to  supply  timber.  Gaunt 
stumps  haunted  the  highways.  Roads  used  for 
centuries  were  sunken  under  the  strain  of  traffic. 
On  either  side  of  the  highways  farmers  were  at 
work  in  the  fields,  though  within  the  range  of 
the  guns.  Along  the  roads,  curling  through  the 
valleys  like  tarnished  gold,  were  long  lines  of  bat- 
teries hurrying  to  and  from  the  front,  those  return- 
ing covered  with  mud  and  having  the  appearance 
of  hard  service.  Yet  in  the  eye  of  every  soldier 
there  was  the  "go-glint"  and  gleam  which  said, 
"We  are  coming  back  with  some  German  bacon." 

Spinning  through  the  villages  beyond  the  speed 
limit,  we  came  to  the  great  American  aviation 
headquarters,  where  the  fighting  squadron  is 
located.  There  was  supreme  satisfaction  in  hearing 
that  the  French,  British  and  American  air  forces 
had  secured  the  mastery  of  the  Vodka,  Fokker  and 
Gotha  machines  of  the  Huns.  Subsequent  records 
have  more  than  verified  the  camp  talk  at  that 
time.  The  dashing  spirit  of  the  Allied  aviators, 
together  with  their  swift  machines,  have  checked 
the  venturesome  Boche. 

The  thrill  of  one  group  cannot  be  described, 
when  we  saw  Winslow  leave  the  earth  with  a 
swoop,  just  missing  the  Boche  as  he  came  across 
the  line,  and  with  a  masterful  nose  dive  bring  him 


54  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

to  the  ground.  This  was  all  compassed  in  six 
minutes,  a  stop-watch  being  held  by  one  of  the 
machinists.  Six  brief  minutes  from  the  time  of 
the  ascent  until  the  Boche  had  made  a  ghastly 
dent  in  the  sod. 

The  "aces"  talk  little  of  their  work,  insisting 
it  is  not  a  matter  of  deliberation  so  much  as 
instinct.  They  give  no  reason  for  the  things  they 
do — they  just  do  them  with  an  unerring  intuition. 
The  fine  sense  of  balance,  coupled  with  the  daring 
and  vitality  of  youth,  is  making  itself  felt  in  the 
aviation  records. 

When  the  Allies  began  bombing  German  cities 
there  was  the  cry  of  "Kamerad,"  and  the  Germans 
protested  against  attacks  on  civilians  and  non- 
combatants,  forgetting  what  they  had  been  doing 
with  impunity  in  myriad  raids  over  France, 
England  and  Italy,  their  victims  numbering  into 
thousands.  Among  the  aviators  the  feeling  pre- 
vailed that  attacks  from  the  air  would  yet  play  an 
important  part  in  ending  the  war. 

Soaring  dragons  swooping  down  from  the  sky, 
like  the  vengeance  of  heaven,  fires  the  imagination 
of  the  fighting  squadrons  on  Allied  aviation  fields. 
Here  the  houses  were  covered  with  spruce  trees, 
and  camouflage  was  everywhere  in  evidence  as 
we   neared   the   range   of   guns.     The   objective 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  55 

point  of  our  trip  was  Toul,  the  great  canal  center 
of  France.  It  is  here  one  realizes  how  much  of 
the  traffic  of  this  nation  is  handled  by  canals. 
Seventy  per  cent  of  the  population  of  France  are 
farmers,  and  most  of  their  produce  is  transported 
by  canals.  This  land  of  the  ancient  Gauls  has  for 
centuries  been  producing  sustenance  for  a  mighty 
race.  In  an  old  deserted  residence,  where  the 
assistant  Provost  Marshal  lived,  we  had  to  show 
our  passes.  Here  the  soldiers  had  drawn  a  calendar 
on  the  plaster  of  the  wall  with  lead  pencil  to  keep 
track  of  the  dates.  Apparently  there  was  a  dearth 
of  1918  calendars.  A  tiny  military  narrow-gauge 
railroad  paralleled  the  road,  and  the  little  locomo- 
tives as  they  pushed  along  their  loads  looked  like 
toys  compared  to  America's  great  mogul  engines. 
They  seemed  to  be  trying  to  compete  with  the 
rumbling  army  trucks  and  Red  Cross  caravans 
which  crowded  the  roadways  with  supplies  for 
the  troops. 

At  is  located  a  great  veterinary  hos- 
pital in  which  were  thousands  of  horses — some 
had  been  wounded  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  some  were 
stone  blind  from  mustard  gas,  although,  like  the 
men,  they  will  recover  their  sight  in  a  few  weeks. 
Every  horse  in  France  is  valuable,  being  worth 
over  a  thousand  dollars,  and  they  are  given  every 


56  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

care.  In  vast  barracks,  originally  built  by  the 
Germans  during  the  Franco -Prussian  war,  was 
stationed  the  famous regiment.  This  regi- 
ment held  a  meeting  that  evening,  and  I  never 
heard  a  more  ringing  speech  than  that  delivered 
by  the  Colonel  to  his  men,  and  his  tribute  to  their 
clean  and  sturdy  manhood,  as  indicated  by  their 
medical  tests  and  in  the  work  which  they  had 
accomplished,  would  have  moved  the  folks  at 
home  could  they  have  heard  it. 

Apples,  which  had  just  arrived  from  their  native 
state,  were  being  distributed.  We  sat  about  in  the 
dim  candle  light  eating  them,  as  at  a  Hallowe'en 
party. 

Around  a  bend  and  up  a  hill,  still  passing 
sentinels  who  stopped  us  for  identification  at  every 
turn,  we  came  upon  an  old  chateau,  headquarters 

of  the division.    It  was  owned  by  a  retired 

French  officer,  and  had  been  in  his  family  for 
years.  Here  I  enjoyed  baked  beans  (my  favorite 
Boston  Saturday  evening  dish)  with  the  com- 
mander, and  it  was  to  him  I  delivered  the  flag  from 
the  women  of  Boston  and  gave  their  message  to 
the  boys.  An  air  of  peace  and  quietness  prevailed, 
but  it  was  the  ominous  silence  which  precedes  an 
attack  from  the  "storm  troops"  of  the  Germans. 
It  was  hard  even  then  to  realize  that  we  were 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  57 

within  reach  of  the  great  guns  of  the  greatest  war 
in  history.  There  was  a  grim  look  on  the  face  of 
the  General  as  he  said: 

"It  seems  quiet  today,  but  we  can  never  be 
sure." 

While  I  was  at  Major  General  's  head- 
quarters, an  orderly  announced  that  a  young 
soldier  was  dying  at  the  hospital.  When  his  name 
was  given,  the  General  said,  "Look  up  and  see  if 
he  hasn't  a  decoration."  He  learned  that  none 
had  come  in.  The  Major  General  got  up  and  went 
down  to  the  hospital  and  found  the  boy.  The 
General  patted  him  on  the  chest  and  said:  "It's 
all  right,  my  lad,  you've  won  the  greatest  honors." 

The  boy  had  missed  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  the  one 
great  passion  of  a  soldier,  but  he  had  gained  some- 
thing far  greater:  he  had  won  the  commendation 
of  his  Commander,  and  died  supremely  happy. 
For  the  soldiers  see  the  cause  through  their 
superior  officers. 

Returning  to  headquarters,  the  General,  his 
jaw  set,  and  his  lip  slightly  trembling,  said:  "By 
God!    our  boys  have  discipline  and  stout  hearts." 

The  rewards  of  service  on  the  battlefield  were 
shown  on  the  day  when  the  104th  regiment  was 
decorated  by  General  Passaga,  commanding  the 
32nd  French  Army  Corps.    The  whole  regiment 


58  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

was  drawn  up  on  the  parade  grounds,  and  amid 
impressive  ceremonies  and  the  music  of  bands,  the 
Croix  de  Guerre  was  pinned  to  the  regimental 
colors,  and  over  a  hundred  individual  members 
were  also  decorated  with  the  Croix  de  Guerre.  The 
order  was  as  follows: 


32nd  Army  Corps 

Staff 

1st  Bureau  „  „  ..  _     , 

personnel  H.Q.  April  26th,  1918 

GENERAL  ORDER  No.  737/ a 

General  PASSAGA,  commanding  the  32nd  Army  Corps, 
cites  in  Army  Corps  Orders: 

104th  Regiment  of  Infantry,  American, 
under  command  of  Lt.-Colonel  G.  H.  Shelton: 

"For  greatest  fighting  spirit  and  self-sacrifice  during  action 
of  April  10th,  12th  and  13th,  1918.  Suffering  from  very  heavy 
bombardments  and  attacked  by  very  strong  German  forces, 
succeeded  in  preventing  their  dangerous  advance  and  with 
great  energy  recaptured  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet  the  few 
ruined  trenches  which  had  to  be  abandoned  at  the  first  onset, 
at  the  same  time  making  prisoners." 

General  PASSAGA, 
Commanding,  32nd  Army  Corps 


The  fight  at  a  few  days  before  had 

resulted  in  many  casualties,  but  it  had  also  made 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  59 

the  German  traveling  circus  pay  dearly.    Up  early 

at  4  a.m.,  and  through  the  trenches,  General 

surveys  the  day's  work  before  the  dawn,  because 
it  is  not  safe  around  the  trenches  in  the  daylight. 
A  division  headquarters  is  run  with  all  the  system 
of  a  great  manufacturing  plant.  The  airplane 
scouts  go  over  the  enemy  lines  daily  and  bring 
back  pictures  showing  locations  of  the  fortifications 
of  enemy  troops.  These  photographs  are  printed 
and  every  detail  studied.  Nothing  is  overlooked 
by  the  watchful  eyes  along  that  twelve-mile  sector. 

The division  was  the  first  to  be  organized 

in  France,  and  it  was  the  first  to  take  over  an  entire 
sector.  The  headquarters  of  an  army  are  spread 
out  in  fan  shape.  The  division  headquarters  are 
at  the  apex  of  that  fan.  Then,  on  either  side,  are 
located  the  brigades,  and  spreading  from  the 
brigades  are  the  regiments.  From  the  regiments 
are  the  companies,  usually  three  in  front  and  two 
behind.  It  may  be  some  consolation  to  American 
mothers  to  know  that  it  is  for  very  little  time,  at 
best,  in  the  movement  of  troops,  that  their  boys 
remain  in  the  front  lines.  They  move  forward  to 
the  front  and  then  to  the  rear  automatically. 

When  I  rode  over  to  the  new  headquarters  of 
the  102nd  regiment,  made  up  of  Connecticut  boys, 
I  met  the  heroes  of  a  bitter  fight,  in  which  the  losses 


60  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

were  heavy.  On  cots  of  straw  the  boys  from  New 
Haven,  Bristol,  and  Hartford  were  resting,  and  it 
was  from  their  lips  that  I  heard  the  story  of  their 
hard-fought  battle,  told  with  all  the  piquancy  of 
a  bear  hunt.  All  these  men  were  eager  to  take 
their  place  in  the  front  line  trenches,  and  not  a 
face  along  the  line,  in  spite  of  the  casualties, 
had  a  look  of  hesitancy.  One  brought  forth  a 
lapel  taken  off  a  German,  No.  257.  He  also 
showed  me  a  pistol  which  he  had  taken  from  his 
prisoner. 

The  General  suggested  that  I  see  the  soldiers 
in  a  regiment  which  was  doing  actual  fighting, 
advising  that  I  mingle  with  the  boys  freely,  getting 
their  first-hand  stories,  rather  than  lingering 
around  the  officers'  mess. 

I  visited  this  regiment,  which  was  a  few  miles 
distant.  Arriving  at  dusk,  I  could  see  the  blinking 
light  of  three  or  four  candles.  As  I  drew  nearer, 
the  major  and  the  officers  were  sitting  around  a 
table,  talking  over  the  day's  doings.  The  little 
major,  who  had  been  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight, 
was  at  the  head  of  the  table,  looking  as  uncon- 
cerned as  when  constructing  typewriters.  In 
chumming  with  the  boys  I  had  heard  how  much 
they  thought  of  him,  and  made  free  to  tell  him  so; 
but  he  was  too  modest  even  to  reply,  and  continued 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  61 

introducing  the  other  officers,  some  being  from  the 
French  Army. 

"It  seems  good  to  see  something  from  home," 
said  the  merry  adjutant,  feeling  of  my  summer 
overcoat. 

"Tomorrow  may  be  a  busy  day,"  said  the 
major  quietly.  The  face  of  every  officer  turned 
toward  him,  for  the  officers  know  by  slight  signs 
what  may  come.  Soldiers  have  an  uncanny  intui- 
tion of  orders  before  they  are  issued.  They  notice 
even  the  way  the  cook  puts  away  the  kettles. 
Nothing  escapes  them.  It  recalled  what  Bismarck 
wrote  to  the  German  leaders  in  one  of  his  last 
letters:  "Beware  of  going  to  war  with  the  quick- 
thinking  and  quick-acting  Americans." 

As  I  went  out  among  the  soldiers,  I  realized 
afresh  what  he  meant  by  the  quick  adjustment 
the  regiment  had  made  to  the  new  conditions  of 
their  camp.  Little  things  showed  the  inventive 
knack  of  the  Americans. 

All  have  an  ambition  to  bring  back  some  trophy 
— a  helmet  or  pistol — anything  belonging  to  the 
equipment  of  Fritz.  The  "hunting  spirit"  is  keen 
among  them.  On  the  firing  line  and  under  fire 
one  day,  a  fellow  who  had  been  a  billing  clerk  on  a 
railroad,  was  turning  over  his  souvenirs  to  a  com- 
rade to  take  back  for  him.    He,  with  habits  long 


62  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

formed,  insisted  on  an  inventory.  "Give  me  a 
receipt,"  he  said.    And  he  got  it. 

The  inventive  traits  so  prominent  in  Americans 
all  come  out  in  the  army  service.  One  man  has 
invented  a  mouse-trap,  and  it's  a  wonder. 

In  our  declaration  of  war,  the  phrase,  "all  our 
resources"  have  a  new  meaning  in  the  new  and 
striking  inventions  which  are  coming  from  the 
brains  of  our  soldiers. 

Listening  to  what  might  be  called  their  bed-time 
stories,  I  heard  incidents  of  their  recent  big  fight. 
They  all  laughed  when  the  Borisky  adventure 
was  told.  The  little  clothing  clerk  of  a  year  ago 
was  about  to  surrender  to  a  number  of  Germans 
when  his  quick  eye  discovered  they  were  wounded. 
Plucking  up  courage,  he  emptied  his  revolver  into 
two  of  them  and  took  the  other — a  big  husky 
Boche — making  him  step  along  lively,  pricking 
him  under  his  coat  tails.  As  he  brought  in  his 
prisoner  he  shouted,  "Ain't  he  a  beauty?  I've  got 
a  ready-made  suit  for  him." 

In  moving  about  the  gas  masks  were  constantly 
needed,  for  all  unexpectedly  a  gas  shell  would 
come  along,  and  on  would  go  the  gas  mask.  There 
was  nothing  else  to  do,  and  nobody  was  taking 
chances.  Over  the  field  were  observation  balloons 
with  telephone  wires  attached,  from  which  every 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  63 

movement  of  the  enemy  was  watched  and  the 
location  and  range  of  the  German  guns  recorded. 
The  discovery  was  made  that  the  graveyard 
which  had  puzzled  the  American  gunners  was 
movable,  and  that  the  Boche  had  transferred  it 
to  another  point  during  the  night.  Imitation  vil- 
lages and  churches  are  often  constructed  with 
which  to  baffle  the  observer.  Every  day  is  a  battle 
of  wits  to  deceive  the  enemy.  The  constantly 
occurring  question  is,  "What  is  Fritz  up  to?" 

At  the  front  the  days  slip  away  so  quickly  that 
all  thought  of  time  is  lost.  Watchfulness  is  the 
chief  business.  There  is  very  little  glancing  at  the 
wrist  watch,  except  to  make  sure  it  is  time  for 
mess.  Great  shells  whizz  intermittently  and  in  a 
brief  time  even  the  novice  learns  to  identify  the 
different  kinds  of  shell  it  is  by  its  song,  and  can  tell 
which  way  it  is  coining.  Nobody  is  too  proud  to 
run  for  shelter.  Hair-breadth  escapes  are  common, 
indeed  almost  incidental  to  the  day's  work,  and 
are  hardly  deemed  worth  recounting  around  the 
mess  at  night.  The  shelled  territory  is  a  gruesome 
sight.  Pictures  taken  from  an  airplane  show  not 
only  the  villages,  but  every  road  and  path  clear 
and  distinct.  Later  pictures  after  a  bombardment 
reveal  every  building,  road  and  footprint  in  these 
same  centers  entirely  obliterated — a  vast  honey- 


64  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

comb  of  craters.  No  desert  could  be  more  deso- 
late— not  a  tree,  railroad,  culvert,  or  living  thing 
remains.  Everything  is  flattened  to  the  ground. 
Finding  the  Germans  were  indulging  in  one  of 
their  favorite  pastimes  of  pelting  the  crossroads, 
we  made  a  detour.  It  had  been  a  busy  day  with 
the  gas  masks.  Four  real  alarms  were  sounded. 
We  came  to  a  group  of  farm  houses.  Being 
hungry,  the  chauffeur  said: 

"I  know  a  place  where  a  salad  grows." 
As  we  drew  up  before  a  house,  I  inquired  of  the 
perennial  son-in-law  prospect: 

"Do  you  know  any  daughters  here?" 
A  little  old  lady  with  a  cap  slightly  set  off  with 
a  meager  fringe,  admitted  us.  She  didn't  seem  to 
need  any  words  to  tell  her  what  we  wanted,  but 
hustled  away  to  the  kitchen.  While  sitting  there 
I  noticed  an  old  square  piano,  which  reminded  me 
of  my  mother's  Stein  way.  Pictures  on  the  walls 
showed  nearly  every  generation,  from  Louis  XIV 
down.  Over  the  mantel,  as  is  the  custom  now, 
was  a  small  American  flag.  I  sat  down  to  the 
piano  and  placed  my  hands  on  the  thin,  worn 
keys.  The  sound  which  issued  forth  was  metallic; 
the  instrument  was  badly  out  of  tune.  But  the 
lieutenant  insisted  that  it  was  the  "Star  Spangled 
Banner"  and  stood  up. 


Copyright  by  Con, in, II,,   on  Public  Information 

IN  THE  FRONT  LINES 

Secretary  Baker  inspecting  a  dugout 


Copyright  by  Committee  on  Public  Infortunium 


IN  NO  MANS  LAM) 

French  and  American  officers  cutting  barbed-wire  entanglements  preparatory 
to  an  infantry  attack 


Copyright  by  Committee  on  Public  Information 

OX  THEIR  WAY 

An  infantry  detachment  passing  through  front-line 'trenches 


(iERMAX  PRISOXERS  OX  WAY  TO  PRISOX  CAMP 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  65 

The  music  brought  the  little  old  lady  into  the 
room,  with  her  spoon  still  uplifted.  She  said, 
"Marseillaise."  And  I  must  confess  it,  I  could 
not  play  it  from  memory;  but  I  have  learned  it 
since,  and  will  never  be  caught  again  without  its 
stirring  strain  in  my  repertoire. 

A  monster  bowl  of  spring  salad,  carrots,  pota- 
toes, onions,  dandelions,  radishes  was  set  before 
us.    And  the  dressing — that  was  the  triumph! 

Contrasted  with  the  activities  of  the  front  are 
the  services  of  the  S.  O.  R.  (Service  of  the  Rear). 
Here  there  is  no  glare  of  the  guns;  it  is  a  question 
of  moving  supplies.  At  Neuf chateau  was  the 
stout  form  of  Billy  Lavere,  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretary, 
with  his  customary  greeting:  "Were  you  born  in 
this  town?"  to  the  boys  as  they  passed.  An  incident 
about  Billy  is  worthy  of  mention.  He  came  across 
a  lone  army  mule,  which  seemed  to  be  only 
slightly  wounded.  Knowing  the  value  of  mules, 
he  tried  to  push  him  into  a  shell  hole  for  safe 
keeping,  where  he  could  later  be  picked  up.  The 
mule  balked  and  argued  to  such  an  extent  that 
Billy  and  a  companion  who  was  with  him  were 
both  kicked  into  the  shell  hole.  A  second  later 
the  mule  was  blown  to  atoms.  His  hoofs  scattered, 
and  the  only  remains  were  a  few  strips  of  black 
hide. 


66  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

If  the  sum  of  treasure  spent  in  this  calamitous 
conflict  on  these  fields  could  be  computed,  every 
square  acre  could  be  overlaid  with  gold.  I  thought 
of  this  as  I  looked  over  these  broad  stretches  now 
dotted  with  golden  buttercups,  so  soon  to  be  torn 
with  ghastly  shell  holes  and  sprinkled  with  human 
blood!    The  picture  will  not  soon  be  forgotten. 

If  another  touch  was  needed  to  heighten  my 
view  of  the  battlefield,  it  was  given  when  I  saw 
cars  of  American  wounded,  each  brave  soul 
shouting,  or  singing,  or  cheering  one  another;  with 
now  and  then,  it  may  be,  a  call  for  "mother." 
It  wrung  my  heart. 

During  all  my  journeys  in  the  zone  of  operations, 
not  once  did  I  see  Old  Glory  at  the  head  of  any  of 
the  troops,  either  going  or  coming.  I  did  not 
realize  this  until  I  returned  to  headquarters,  where 
the  presence  of  the  flag  flying  in  the  breeze  recalled 
it  to  me. 

Whether  to  hide  from  enemy  observation  the 
character  of  regiments,  or  to  emphasize  the  actual 
alliance  with  other  nations,  the  brigading  of  all 
in  one  great  army  of  democracy — whatever  the 
motive — it  remains  a  startling  truth  that  not 
once  could  I  recall  having  glimpsed  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  on  the  battle-field. 

But  there  it  waved,  proudly  waved.    I  thought 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  67 

I  had  venerated  it  before,  loved  it  for  all  it  stood 
for,  and  yet — and  I  swear  it — to  me  it  was  a  new 
flag,  for  I  saw  interwoven  in  it  the  living  tissue  of 
flesh  and  blood.  Its  field  of  blue  was  no  longer 
merely  forty-eight  formal  stars,  but  in  their  place 
a  constellation — every  one  of  them  the  face  of 
Pershing  and  his  men. 


VII 

UNDER  THE  RED  CROSS  BANNER 
IN  FRANCE 

WHETHER  it  was  the  raid  of  the  night, 
resulting  in  nervousness,  or  my  eagerness 
to  be  doing  things,  I  cannot  say,  but 
almost  before  there  was  any  stir  in  the  streets  I 
found  myself  standing  before  the  Madeleine.  In 
other  days  no  edifice  had  moved  me  more.  Di- 
rectly in  front,  and  down  the  street,  is  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde.  Here  is  located  the  American 
Red  Cross  headquarters.  Being  too  early  for  the 
opening  of  the  doors,  I  went  to  the  monument  of 
Alsace  and  Lorraine  nearby,  which  years  before 
I  had  seen  wrapped  in  mourning.  It  was  then 
draped  to  express  the  sorrow  of  France  over  the 
loss  of  her  two  beloved  provinces.  Now  it  was 
sandbagged  for  protection  against  air  raids.  Yet 
it  was  startling  to  see  the  tri-color  of  France 
waving  from  a  festooned  wreath  in  the  waxing 
light  of  the  morning — prophetic  hope  of  the 
future! 

(68) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  69 

In  a  flash  the  narrative  of  Daudet's  "Last 
Class"  came  over  me.  It  was  in  Alsace-Lorraine. 
The  school  had  assembled  for  the  last  recitation 
in  their  mother  tongue.  The  Prussian  edict  had 
gone  forth  that  the  hour  of  twelve  would  end  the 
use  of  the  French  language  in  Alsace.  No  mother 
could  even  croon  a  lullaby  or  a  father  address  his 
heir  in  the  language  of  his  birth.  By  one  stroke 
the  Hun  was  to  tear  out  by  the  roots  the  tongue  of 
the  people. 

The  village  people  gathered,  a  great  concourse 
of  them,  to  hear  the  school  master's  last  words, 
which  proved  to  be  a  tribute  to  the  French  tongue. 
Suddenly  the  clock  in  the  church  tower  struck 
noon; — then  the  Angelus.  At  the  same  moment 
the  trumpets  of  the  Prussians  sounded  under  the 
windows.  The  school  master  arose,  very  pale,  but 
never  seeming  so  grand  and  good.  "My  friends," 
he  said,  "I — I"  but  he  could  not  finish.  Turning  to 
the  blackboard,  he  took  a  piece  of  chalk,  and 
gathering  all  his  strength,  wrote,  in  letters  that  I 
seemed  to  see  blazing  in  the  glorious  light  of  the 
morning  on  the  monument,  "Viie  la  France!" 

In  that  moment  I  knew,  if  never  before,  why  the 
American  Red  Cross  was  in  France. 

The  American  Red  Cross  headquarters  at  Place 
de  la  Concorde  is  located  in  a  club  building,  and 


70  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

once  the  home  of  a  most  exclusive  organization. 
Even  now  the  same  aristocratic  atmosphere  per- 
vades the  place.  The  adornment  is  that  of  simple 
elegance.  The  finest  taste  was  exercised  in  its 
furnishings.  Every  foot  bound  hither  on  errands 
of  mercy  today  presses  the  most  expensive  rugs. 
On  the  walls  there  is  a  lavish  display  of  paintings. 
Yet  this  all-exclusive  club  responded  to  the  all- 
inclusive  call  for  help  and  turned  over  to  the  Red 
Cross  its  magnificent  rooms. 

Instead  of  a  place  of  luxurious  repose,  it  has  been 
transformed  to  a  hive  of  industry.  Its  palatial 
salons  are  now  offices.  The  winding  stairway  is 
a  public  thoroughfare.  Each  room  is  marked 
with  large  numerals,  as,  for  example,  Room  C  14, 
or  B  17.  Here  were  dignified  Red  Cross  majors 
hustling  about,  nurses  and  pretty  Red  Cross  girls 
with  the  insignia  of  the  United  States  on  their 
shoulders,  and  the  good  old  Yankee  twang  with  a 
new  accent  on  the  lips  of  all. 

The  American  Red  Cross  is  creating  for  itself 
a  high  place  in  the  estimation  of  the  people  of 
France.  New  recruits  are  arriving  every  day.  The 
girls  are  not  known  by  name,  but  simply  as  "the 
girl  who  came  from  Chicago,"  or  "the  girls  who 
arrived  on  the  Espagne."  Social  distinction  is 
lost.     The   whole  staff  of  workers   constitute   a 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  71 

democratic  fraternity.  Some  are  assigned  to  base 
hospitals,  some  sent  to  Italy,  some  to  remote  places 
in  France,  while  others  assist  in  the  work  at 
headquarters. 

Ascending  five  long  "tops"  of  stairs,  accom- 
panied all  the  way  by  the  rapid-fire  clicking  of  the 
typewriters,  I  reached  the  office  of  Major  J.  M. 
Perkins,  head  of  the  American  Red  Cross  in 
France.  The  room  was  decorated  in  the  most 
ornate  style,  with  a  sky  blue  ceiling  in  which  the 
birds  seem  really  alive  and  flying.  The  French 
seem  to  know  how  to  make  a  lamp  post  look  artistic. 
They  also  have  the  art  of  making  strangers  feel  at 
home.  In  such  exclusive  environments,  Major 
Perkins  looks  after  the  multifarious  details  of  the 
Red  Cross  help,  his  careful  handling  suggesting 
high  executiveship. 

Many  names  well  known  in  American  life  are 
to  be  found  on  the  roster.  Society  women  of  Fifth 
Avenue  in  jumper  and  apron,  with  stenographers 
from  Posey  County,  are  unraveling  problems 
together.  It  is  a  veritable  clearing-house.  Most 
of  these  workers  have  now  exchanged  the  Saxon 
"yes,  yes"  for  the  French  "om",  oui" 

The  French  telephone  is  a  puzzle.  I  first 
attempted  to  use  it  here  at  the  Red  Cross  rooms. 
Unless  you  hold  your  hand  down  on  the  lever 


72  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

while  talking,  your  conversation  is  lost.  The 
French  trumpet  and  earpiece  are  one,  and  many 
a  new  arrival  has  appeared  foolish  looking  for  the 
mouthpiece  when  it  is  already  under  his  chin. 
The  greeting  "hello"  of  the  French  girls  as  you 
take  up  the  instrument  sounds,  with  their  pretty 
accent,  like  the  Hawaiian  "aloha."  A  babble 
of  voices  in  many  different  languages  is  heard 
on  every  side.  A  French  conversation  on  the 
telephone  never  seems  to  cease.  The  operator 
calls  up  again  in  about  ten  minutes  after  the  final 
word  and  inquires,  "Avez  vous  fini?"  Americans 
have  developed  one  French  and  one  English  ear 
to  meet  the  exigencies. 

All  this  made  it  an  event  at  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde when  the  American  telephone  girls  arrived, 
who,  with  nimble  tongues  and  quick  ears,  were  at 
home  in  two  languages.  Attired  in  uniforms,  the 
American  operators  looked  to  be  perfectly  capable 
to  put  "pep"  into  even  the  language  of  Napoleon, 
and  they  soon  straightened  out  many  tanglements 
and  tempers.  Many  Americans  speaking  "ship- 
board" French  get  into  a  muddle  of  words.  It  is 
very  easy  to  convey  the  opposite  meaning  of  what 
you  want  to  say! 

Every  hour  enhanced  my  admiration  for  the 
French  people.    Their  courtesy  is  especially  shown 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  73 

in  devotion  to  children.  In  front  of  Hotel  Crillon 
Ambassador  Sharpe  pointed  to  a  passing  family 
group.  Children  of  parents  too  poor  to  buy  had 
been  provided  by  the  Red  Cross  with  a  trinket  or 
toy.  The  innate  courtesy  and  respectful  address 
is  a  pleasing  contrast  to  the  brusqueness  of  the 
average  American. 

At  the  American  headquarters  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  gentleman  who  was  rendering 
valiant  service  in  translating  the  needs  of  every 
race  and  tongue.  He  was  then  at  the  head  of  the 
Reception  Corps.  His  knowledge  of  foreign  lan- 
guages and  his  even  temperament  helped  in  the 
Babel  of  tongues.  The  news  came  that  his  little 
boy  was  dead.  His  strong  frame  shook  with  emo- 
tion as  he  told  of  little  Bapino.  All  the  science  of 
American  surgery  at  the  Red  Cross  hospital  had 
been  used  to  save  the  two-year-old  child,  but  to 
no  avail.  Although  I  had  not  known  the  father 
long,  I  felt  drawn  to  him,  for  I  remembered 
when  the  same  dark  cloud  came  to  my  home.  I  told 
him  I  would  attend  the  funeral  on  Sunday.  Many 
Americans  sent  flowers,  and  when  the  little  casket 
was  carried  along  in  the  arms  of  the  father  for  the 
solemn  rites  by  the  priest — it  seemed  almost  as  if 
a  little  soldier  had  fallen.  The  little  white  hearse 
was  covered  with  a  blanket  of  flowers.    I  walked  at 


74  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

least  two  miles  behind  that  hearse  with  the 
stricken  father,  the  Boy  Scouts  of  the  Red  Cross 
as  honorary  escort  following.  Soldiers  and  offi- 
cers saluted  as  the  procession  passed,  and  civilians 
uncovered  their  heads  as  a  mark  of  respect. 

At  Neuilly  on  the  Seine  the  little  form  was  laid 
away  in  a  flower-strewn  grave.  The  priest  was 
unable  to  come  and  at  the  father's  appeal  that 
some  little  word  of  prayer  be  uttered,  I  myself 
volunteered.  My  language  was  strange,  but  all 
hearts  were  in  unison  with  sympathy  for  the 
parental  heart.  This  was  one  of  many  children 
who  sickened  and  died  during  the  air  raids  of  the 
unpitying  Huns. 

The  arrival  of  American  troops  through  France 
aroused  the  highest  enthusiasm.  One  news- 
paper writer,  in  characterizing  their  appearance, 
gravely  records  that  "the  high  cheek  bones  and 
features  of  the  North  American  Indian  were  the 
hallmarks  of  many  faces."  In  the  language  of 
George  Ade,  I  just  "laffed"  at  his  words,  but  the 
next  day  furnished  an  illustration  of  the  eagerness 
of  the  French  to  find  something  in  us  "like  them." 

A  young  French  officer,  a  blue-eyed  Alsatian, 
six  feet  or  more,  stood  with  me  watching  the  in- 
coming American  troops.  He  was  soon  to  leave 
on  a  dangerous  mission  from  which  rumor  had 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  75 

it  he  will  never  return.  This  day,  perhaps  his 
last  in  beloved  France,  gave  his  accentuated  words 
a  new  emphasis.  "Why,"  he  said,  with  simple 
assurance,  "they  are  just  like  us,  Monsieur,  their 
very  walk,  their  look — it  is  only  the  uniform  that 
is  a  little  different." 

For  the  moment  I  was  lifted  beyond  all  trifling 
differences  in  khaki,  features  and  mannerisms, 
for  the  young  officer  in  his  God-given  vision  had 
seen  in  our  soldiers  as  they  marched  by,  the  kin- 
ship of  souls. 

Major  J.  M.  Perkins  is  daily  confronted  with 
new  and  grave  problems  of  Red  Cross  activities, 
but  with  the  characteristic  energy  which  marked 
his  career  as  a  banker  in  Boston  and  New  York,  he 
directs  the  movements  of  his  battalions,  works  as 
a  general  in  the  field,  dashing  here  and  there,  and  is 
always  in  personal  touch  with  the  work.  A  journey 
to  Lyon  in  southern  France  with  him  furnished  a 
glimpse  of  the  diversified  work  of  the  American 
Red  Cross  in  conjunction  with  the  French  organ- 
izations. Ensconced  in  a  cochet,  which  is  merely 
a  night  car  bench  to  stretch  out  on — there  was  no 
mattress  or  covers — we  thought  of  the  Pullman 
at  home.  In  our  compartment — and  there  were 
four  in  the  box — was  a  Belgian  senator,  who 
challenged  me  to  a  snoring  match.     I  won.     The 


76  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Major  didn't  sleep — but  sat  up  looking  for  live 
game  with  his  flashlight. 

At  Lyon  is  located  the  tuberculosis  sanitarium 
for  the  French  repatriate  women.  Six  months  ago 
it  was  a  barracks,  before  that  it  was  a  bath  house, 
before  that  it  was  an  empress's  castle,  today  it  is 
a  tuberculosis  hospital  where  the  American  Red 
Cross  is  caring  for  French  repatriate  women.  It 
was  the  Empress  Eugenie  who  gave  the  chateau 
to  the  city  of  Lyon,  and  it  was  the  Hospital  Board 
of  Lyon  who  gave  it  to  the  American  Red  Cross. 

The  city  is  only  a  short  distance  away,  but  it 
might  be  a  hundred  miles,  the  air  is  so  clear.  The 
grass  on  the  terraces  is  thick  and  green,  the  trees 
are  cool  and  shady.  Below  the  chateau  garden 
the  ground  drops  sharply  and  slopes  away  through 
field  after  field  to  the  Rhone  river.  The  ammuni- 
tion factories  on  the  other  bank  are  so  far  away 
that  they  are  only  soft  gray  shadows  against  the 
sky. 

The  windows  of  the  wards  open  wide  on  peace- 
ful country  views.  But  the  women  in  the  wards 
are  much  more  interested  in  the  American  visitors 
whom  the  brusque  American  doctor  is  talking 
about.  "Bonjour,  Mesdames."  "Bonjonr,  Mes- 
sieurs,"— each  one  bows  a  ceremonious  little  bow, 
leaning  forward  from  her  piled  pillows  or  raising 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  11 

her  head,  ever  so  little,  with  a  feeble  smile.  The 
doctor  explains  that  there  is  nothing  which  gives 
them  so  much  amusement  as  to  hear  him  talk 
French.  He  says  a  few  words  to  one  of  the 
women  to  prove  it  and  the  whole  ward  chuckles 
gleefully. 

The  women  are  divided  according  to  the  stage 
of  the  disease,  so  that  more  or  less  similar  treat- 
ment can  be  carried  on  in  each  ward.  When  they 
are  well  enough  to  be  out  of  bed  most  of  the  day, 
they  go  out  into  one  of  the  wooden  barracks,  where 
they  live  practically  in  the  open  air,  and  where 
they  are  given  light  work  to  do  and  from  which, 
in  time,  some  of  them  will  be  sent  back  to  their 
families  after  they  have  learned  how  to  take  care 
of  themselves  and  not  spread  contagion  among 
those  with  whom  they  live. 

They  are  all  repatriates,  these  women  and  girls, 
whom  Germany  sent  back  to  France  for  the  very 
reason  that  they  have  tuberculosis.  Among  the 
thousands  who  pour  through  Evian  on  the  Swiss 
border,  at  least  thirty-five,  sometimes  as  many 
as  sixty -five  in  every  thousand,  are  afflicted  with 
the  disease.  The  Red  Cross  has  a  hospital  admis- 
sion bureau  in  Paris  which  places  these  people  in 
American  hospitals  and  in  French  institutions  all 
through  the  country.    Lyon,  which  is  so  near  to 


78  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Evian,  where  the  repatriate  convoys  come  through 
from  Germany,  is  a  particularly  good  place  for  a 
hospital.  The  General  Hospital  Board  of  the  city 
offered  the  Americans  the  chateau  of  Sainte 
Eugenie.  The  building  and  the  newly-constructed 
barracks  they  gave  rent  free.  They  provided 
beds  and  bedding,  heat  and  lighting,  water  and 
plumbing,  disinfection  and  food.  The  Red  Cross 
furnishes  doctors,  nurses  and  medical  supplies. 

It  is  not  to  the  soldiers  alone  that  the  American 
Red  Cross  has  brought  its  comforting  aid,  but  to 
all  those  in  distress  or  need  wherever  found. 
Great  has  been  the  organization's  work  among 
the  armies,  but  greater  still  is  its  work  among 
these  repatriate  women  because  it  is  helpfulness 
softened  with  tender  interest  and  compassion — 
the  protective  compassion  of  the  big  American 
brother  for  his  sisters. 

As  I  walked  among  the  patients,  I  asked  a  dear 
old  lady  her  age,  having  complimented  her  on  her 
smile.  "I  am  not  too  old  to  be  admired,"  she  said 
shyly,  "but  am  too  old  to  mind  telling  my  age. 
I  am  one  hundred  next  month,  and  life  is  still 
glorious  in  the  hopes  you  have  brought  to  France." 

Under  the  trees  overlooking  the  Valley  of  the 
Rhone,  where  German  prisoners  were  at  work,  the 
patients  seemed  most  hopeful  of  restored  health. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  79 

A  tuberculosis  hospital  can  never  be  a  gay  place, 
and  yet  many  of  the  women  and  girls  at  Sainte 
Eugenie  are  happier  than  they  have  been  for  many 
months.  They  are  back  again  in  France.  They 
have  warm  and  comfortable  beds.  They  have 
air  and  sunshine.  They  have  delicious  food  and 
plenty  of  it.  Back  and  forth  through  the  wards 
move  Sisters  of  Charity  in  quaint  white  coifs. 
They  are  repatriates,  too,  who  come  every  day  to 
read  to  the  patients.  But  better  almost  than 
sisters  or  nurses  or  doctors,  so  it  seemed  to  the 
American  visitors,  are  the  trees  on  the  terrace,  the 
big  branching  lindens  clipped  French  fashion. 
Under  their  branches  the  nurses  set  the  long 
reclining  chairs,  into  the  chairs  they  tuck  the  thin- 
faced  women,  wrapping  them  warmly  in  woolly 
blankets,  and  there  they  lie,  hour  after  hour,  in 
the  sun  and  the  soft  wind,  while  little  by  little 
health  and  hope  come  back  to  them. 

It  was  here  that  Mr.  H.  P.  Davison,  chairman 
of  the  American  Red  Cross,  came  on  his  tri- 
umphal return  from  Italy.  The  mayor  and  digni- 
taries of  the  city  met  his  party,  and  thousands 
of  school  children  gathered  on  the  plaza  to  pay 
him  homage.  Mr.  Davison  was  presented  with  a 
large  bouquet,  which  included  a  branch  of  palms 
(symbol  of  victory) .  These  he  carried  with  all  the 


80  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

eclat  of  a  bridegroom.  His  address  was  most 
modest,  yet  deeply  sympathetic,  reaching  all 
hearts. 

Perhaps  the  most  impressive  incident  of  this 
magnificent  reception  was  in  the  flags  which  many 
of  the  children  carried  in  their  right  hand  and 
with  which  they  waved  a  greeting.  There  were  not 
enough  ready-made  flags  to  go  around.  But  the 
unquenchable  spirit  of  these  little  ones  could  not 
be  denied.  With  their  own  hands  they  made 
small  flags  of  strips  of  silk,  cotton,  flannel,  or  what- 
ever came  to  them.  But  the  colors  were  true. 
Never  was  there  deeper  gratitude  than  waved 
resplendent  in  their  creations  of  the  Red,  White 
and  Blue. 

The  complete  story  of  the  work  of  mercy  at  the 
front  can  never  be  told  until  after  the  war.  Each 
day  furnishes  some  new  and  diversified  incident, 
which  at  the  end  will  find  its  place  in  the  color 
of  the  picture.  The  essentials  in  the  organization 
in  the  various  centers  are  the  same.  The  applica- 
tion of  these  principles  is  modified,  or  changed 
to  suit  the  particular  need.  The  flexibility  of 
this  organization,  whose  one  working  creed  is 
mercy,  is  one  of  the  features  of  the  war. 

At  base  hospital  No.  1,  near  Toul,  was  my  first 
glimpse  of  the  treatment  of  those  actually  wounded. 


Copyright, 
Harris  & 
Ewing 


HENRY  P.  DAVISON 

Chairman  American  Red  Cross 


AMERICAN  RED  CROSS  REST  HOUSE  BEHIND  ITALIAN  FRONT 


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C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  th$  War  81 

Here  were  the  same  sort  of  beds,  attendants, 
nurses,  and  surgeons  to  which  we  are  accustomed 
at  home.  The  uniform,  the  surgical  instruments, 
the  dressings,  were  all  familiar.  The  self-same 
fumes  of  anesthetics  filled  the  rooms.  But  the 
wounded!  Ah,  that  was  the  difference!  They  were 
different  than  any  I  ever  saw,  and  different  than  I 
ever  hope  to  see  again.  Men  who  had  been 
gassed,  being  led  along,  the  film  of  darkness  over 
their  bloodshot  eyes;  some  unable  to  walk — a 
limb  gone;  others  with  bandages  around  their 
heads,  and  more  with  faces  torn,  needing  expert 
facial  building.  Every  case  is  different,  yet  every 
one  calls  for  known  and  often  unknown  resources 
in  surgery  and  nursing  skill.  A  careful  record  is 
kept  of  each  patient,  serving  as  a  compendium  of 
knowledge  in  the  treatment  of  those  yet  to  come. 
Cases  could  be  multiplied,  but  I  give  one  as 
exemplifying  the  heroism  of  our  men.  One  poor 
fellow  had  lost  his  right  arm.  With  that  strange 
premonition  which  sometimes  precedes  accident, 
he  was  seen  writing  one  day  with  his  left  hand. 
When  asked  by  some  of  his  comrades  why  he  did 
so,  he  said:  "I  feel  as  if  I  was  going  to  be  hit, 
and  I  was  seeing  if  I  could  write  a  letter  home 
with  my  left  hand."  Strange  fatality!  WThen  he 
returned  from  the  next  battle,  his  right  arm  was 


82  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

gone.  I  saw  him  lying  there  and  tried  to  cheer  him. 
Instead  of  being  cast  down,  he  said:  "I  guess 
when  I  get  home  I  shan't  need  to  tell  them  where 
I've  been." 

I  looked  out  the  window  to  hide  my  emotion. 
And  through  the  mist  in  my  eyes  I  could  see  the 
distant  Lorraine  mountains,  and  I  wondered  if 
there  was  any  peak  too  high  to  commemorate 
bravery  like  that.  Outside  I  could  see  the  red 
of  a  few  tulips  blazing  in  a  bed;  tiny  blue  violets 
were  peeping  out  of  the  ground,  while  the  apple 
trees  were  just  then  massed  in  blooms  of  pure 
white.  Even  Nature  had  hung  out  her  banner  of 
red,  white  and  blue  in  honor  of  such  heroes! 


VIII 


A  SUNDAY  VISIT  WITH  MARSHAL  JOFFRE 


MY  first  Sunday  afternoon  in  Paris  was 
made  memorable  by  an  interview  with 
Marshal  Joffre — at  the  Ecole  L'Militaire, 
the  West  Point  of  France.  I  had  traveled  with 
him  on  his  famous  American  tour,  and  now 
looked  forward  with  pleasure  to  a  renewal  of  that 
acquaintance.  I  brushed  my  hair,  as  nearly  as  I 
could  remember,  in  the  manner  he  wore  his.  With 
as  much  military  bearing  as  I  could  command  I 
passed  up  the  broad  stairs  to  the  reception  room, 
and  was  greeted  by  Major  Fabre,  the  "Blue 
Devil"  of  Alsace,  whom  I  had  previously  met  on 
the  American  tour.  While  I  was  waiting  he 
recalled  incidents  of  the  fast  and  furious  visit  in 
America,  even  mentioning  the  day  in  Boston 
when  at  the  State  House  reviewing  stand,  he  was 
so  weary  I  gave  him  a  chair. 

"The    chair-man!"    he    exclaimed,    recognizing 
me.     "It  seems  to  me  that  was  the  first  and  only 

(83) 


84  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

time  I  had  a  chance  to  rest  during  our  entire  stay 
in  America."  Major  Fabre  lost  one  leg  under 
Joffre  at  the  Marne. 

Marshal  Joffre  was  receiving  a  commission  of 
prominent  citizens,  but  I  had  not  waited  long 
when  the  members  of  the  delegation  departed  and 
I  was  admitted.  He  greeted  me  with  the  same 
kindly  smile  I  had  learned  to  know  in  America. 
I  gave  "the  triumph"  salute,  eyes  up,  which  I 
had  observed  in  the  "Yankee  Division."  He 
immediately  referred  to  his  visit  overseas. 

"I  felt,"  he  said,  "like  a  real  American  every 
moment  I  was  in  your  wonderful  United  States." 

I  had  this  greeting  translated  in  writing:  "Je 
me  sens  ause  America  que  les  Americain  de  puis 
ma  visite  dans  votre  beau  pays." 

The  spacious  room  in  which  he  sat  overlooked 
the  river  Seine  and  the  field  of  Mars.  At  a  table 
covered  with  green  baize  he  made  a  striking  figure 
in  his  white  trousers  and  full  military  dress.  On 
his  breast  were  medals,  and  he  wore  the  insignia 
of  his  rank  in  deference  to  the  commission  he  had 
just  met.  There  was  a  freshness  in  appearance 
and  manner  contrasting  sharply  with  the  weary 
look  on  his  face  during  the  "American  rush," 
as  he  called  it.  His  blue  eyes  seemed  more  blue 
than  ever  and  I  wondered  how  H.  G.  Wells,  the 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  85 

English  novelist,  in  his  book  describing  him, 
could  have  made  the  mistake  of  calling  his  eyes 
black.  There  might  be  some  doubt  as  to  the  color 
of  some  people's  eyes,  but  not  Joffre's. 

My  interpreter  on  this  occasion  was  Maurice,  the 
dancer,  well  known  to  the  patrons  of  the  Biltmore, 
and  the  theatre-going  public  of  America. 

"When  I  landed  from  the  Mayflower  at  Wash- 
ington," continued  Joffre,  "it  was  one  of  the 
greatest  moments  of  my  life.  Your  receptions 
made  me  feel  that  France  was  in  the  hearts  of  all 
your  people." 

I  replied:  "While  you  were  winning  the  heart 
of  America,  our  people  lost  their  hearts  to  you." 

"Yes,"  came  the  quick  response,  "it  was  a 
complete  conquest." 

Marshal  Joffre  is  the  parent  war  hero  of  France. 
Of  medium  height,  ruddy  complexion,  robust  and 
strong.  There  is  a  great  kindness  in  his  calm  face. 
His  well-rounded  head  is  crowned  with  white 
hair  parted  to  one  side.  His  voice  is  singularly 
soft.  His  heavy  gray  mustache  curves  upward  in 
easy  fashion,  without  military  severity. 

Talking  to  this  savior  of  France,  I  recalled  the 
description  of  him  when  war  broke  out.  He 
accepted  without  a  qualm  the  terrific  mission 
entrusted   to   him.      His   manner   was   calm.     A 


86  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

military  scientist,  precise  and  punctual,  he  laid 
out  a  simple  plan  with  much  thought — and  fol- 
lowed it.  When  the  French  troops  were  being 
driven  back  in  the  first  onslaught  it  was  Joffre 
who  remained  confident. 

"I  mean  to  deliver  the  big  battle  in  the  most 
favorable  conditions  at  my  own  time,  and  on 
ground  I  have  chosen.  If  necessary,  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  retreat.  I  shall  bide  my  time.  No  con- 
sideration whatever  will  make  me  alter  my  plans." 

Even  now  I  could  see  the  self-possession  that 
must  have  asserted  itself  in  those  trying  hours, 
when  day  after  day  he  issued  bulletins  for  retreats 
that  were  shaking  the  world  to  its  foundations. 
For  forty  years  Joffre  had  planned  the  defence 
of  France  in  event  of  such  an  invasion,  and  he  met 
the  situation  unperturbed,  with  a  profound  convic- 
tion that  the  enemy  would  be  stopped  at  the 
Marne.  There  his  iron  will  asserted  itself.  His 
command  was  to  stand  or  die — and  the  valiant 
French  obeyed. 

On  the  eve  of  the  great  battle  the  officers  gath- 
ered their  men  about  them  and  amid  the  roar  of 
the  cannon  they  read  Joffre's  famous  message: 

"Advance,  and  when  you  can  no  longer  advance, 
hold  at  all  cost  what  you  have  gained.  If  you 
can  no  longer  hold,  die  on  the  spot." 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  87 

All  this  flashed  through  my  mind  as  we  stood 
talking. 

Joffre  is  sixty-six  years  old.  As  a  young  man  he 
attended  the  great  French  military  school  in 
which  his  office  is  now  located.  At  eighteen  he 
was  made  a  sub-lieutenant  and  entered  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war.  Here  he  learned  to  know  the  un- 
scrupulous methods  of  the  Germans,  which  he 
never  forgot. 

"I  served  my  country  in  1870,"  he  said,  "and 
I  have  lived  for  this  hour!" 

Indications  are  that  in  the  time  to  come  he  will 
occupy  an  increasingly  prominent  place  in  France. 
Popular  with  the  people,  instead  of  losing  prestige 
with  age,  he  is  gaining.  At  the  outbreak  of  the 
war  he  was  little  known.  He  came  suddenly  to 
greatness.  But  the  military  men  of  France  knew 
him.  They  knew  of  his  colonial  campaigns,  of 
his  great  engineering  work  in  the  building  of 
fortifications,  of  his  zeal  for  protecting  France 
from  war  that  he  knew  was  sure  to  come.  He 
became  the  head  of  the  French  Army  in  1911, 
placed  there  through  the  insistence  of  his  own 
colleagues  rather  than  through  political  influence. 
At  the  time  France  was  facing  the  gravest  period 
of  its  history;  military  men  knew  that  Germany 
was  preparing  to  strike,  and  they  went  before  the 


88  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Chamber  of  Deputies  to  ask  for  a  three  years' 
conscription  service.  Joffre  sat  day  after  day 
under  the  stinging  sarcasm  of  anti-military  dema- 
gogues who  were  reviling  the  army.  So  insulting 
and  personal  became  the  attacks  that  his  confreres 
left  the  Chamber.  Joffre  stayed.  He  knew — 
what  he  could  not  state  publicly — that  the  enemy 
was  at  the  door.  What  he  was  asking  was  for 
France,  not  himself,  and  he  stood  firm.  The 
three  years'  bill  was  passed  enabling  France  to 
hold  its  first  great  manoeuver  in  the  summer  of 
1913.  Only  he  and  the  military  leaders  knew 
that  so  large  an  army  might  be  needed  in  one 
short  year.  Three  years  before  in  legislative  halls, 
Joffre  virtually  won  the  battle  of  the  Marne. 
He  was  the  big  figure  in  that  fight,  as  he  was  at 
the  Marne.  He  prepared  France  for  war  when 
France  refused  to  realize  it  was  coming.  This 
proved  him  more  than  a  great  general,  it  showed 
him  to  be  a  seer  and  statesman.  His  fine  balance 
of  calm  thinking  and  vigorous  decision  made  him 
resolute. 

This,  then,  was  the  hero  of  France,  now  modestly 
telling  me  the  simple  story  of  how  he  came  unwit- 
tingly to  design  the  wide  trousers  of  the  French 
uniform.  It  was  as  a  young  officer  serving  in 
Madagascar    that    an    accident    to    his    trousers 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  89 

threatened  to  delay  his  attendance  at  the  native 
Queen's  reception.  Equal  to  the  emergency 
young  Joffre  cut  a  pair  of  white  trousers  out  of 
a  bolt  of  cloth  with  his  sabre  and  had  a  native 
woman  sew  them  together.  The  threads  held 
fast  and  a  new  style  of  baggy  trousers  with  great 
creases  on  the  sides  was  introduced. 

"They  were  wonderful  for  the  way  they  did 
not  fit,"  he  said,  and  his  full  round  face  lit  up 
with  a  smile. 

Comment  was  made  on  the  rapidity  with  which 
officers'  hair  turns  gray. 

"Is  it  the  worry,  fatigue  and  responsibility?"  I 
asked. 

"No  doubt,"  Joffre  agreed,  "and  perhaps  also 
the  lack  of  certain  indispensable  toliet  articles." 

He  is  in  bed  at  nine  every  night  and  up  at  five. 
After  each  meal  he  takes  his  walking  stick  and 
goes  for  a  stroll.  His  chief  diversion  is  music, 
and  there  is  no  moment  like  that  when  he  is 
grouped  with  his  family  around  the  piano  in 
the  evening.  Although  a  large  man,  he  keeps 
physically  in  shape  at  all  times.  One  day  each 
week  he  walks  ten  miles  and  every  morning  rides 
horseback. 

Among  his  associates  Joffre  is  known  as  a  silent 
man.     Strict  in  military  matters,  he  is  popular 


90  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

with  people  because  of  his  freedom  from  partisan 
entanglements,  and  his  name  is  already  mentioned 
as  one  to  succeed  Poincare  as  President  of  the 
Republic. 

In  his  office  Joffre  has  the  art  of  handling  a 
dozen  subordinates  in  as  many  minutes,  grasping 
their  problems  and  meeting  each  suggestion  with 
a  quiet  word,  with  no  hint  of  worry  or  flurry.  To 
be  the  head  of  a  great  army  is  a  business  in  which 
etiquette  is  incidental. 

So  paternal  is  he,  that  everybody  speaks  of  him 
as  "Papa  Joffre."  One  hardly  thinks  of  him  as 
the  battle-scarred  veteran  of  the  Marne.  And 
yet  when  he  stood  erect,  bidding  me  good-bye, 
there  was  an  unexpected  flash,  like  that  of  blue 
steel  in  his  eyes.  For  a  moment  something  of  the 
real  soldier,  France's  hero,  wras  revealed.  Readily 
one  understood  that  power  comes  from  large 
responsibilities. 

Born  in  the  Pyrenees,  he  is  one  of  the  high 
peaks  of  French  citizenship.  His  home  folk  say: 
"Why  worry — we  have  our  Joffre." 

There  is  a  river  town  in  France  by  the  name  of 
Limoges — it  is  where  French  generals  and  officers 
are  sent  when  they  are  relieved.  General  Joffre 
has  retired  to  this  place  as  many  as  four  generals 
at  a  stroke — and  some  are  his  old  friends.    This 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  91 

gave  meaning  to  the  expression  of  a  young  officer, 
who  remarked: 

"He  has  been  limoged." 

"I  get  you — canned,"  I  replied. 

"Canned,"  he  repeated  with  a  puzzled  look, 
as  if  turning  over  the  slang  phrase. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  he  replied  half  chidingly, 
"that  is  not  the  word.  For,  Monsieur,  the  memory 
of  their  service  will  always  live  in  France." 

I  felt  chastened  in  the  reverence  he  expressed. 

"No  good  deed  ever  dies,"  he  continued.  "It 
is  beyond  the  recognition  of  medals  and  crosses. 
It  is  the  eternal  soul  of  service." 

As  I  left  Marshal  Joffre  I  was  moved  by  his 
unmistakable  confidence  in  the  issues  of  the  war. 
That  conviction  radiates  like  a  magnetic  current 
— electrifying  whoever  it  may  touch — bringing 
dynamic  hope  to  all. 

Then  I  realized  it  is  leaders  make  armies  as 
well  as  armies  make  leaders. 


IX 


ANCIENT  ROME  IN  MODERN  WAR  TIMES 


THE  night  I  left  for  Italy,  the  new  French 
recruits  were  marching  to  the  railway  station 
in  Lyon,  bearing  in  their  hands  green 
boughs,  some  singing,  and  others  playing  accor- 
dions. They  seemed  happier  in  going  to  the  front 
than  I  even  in  the  prospect  of  going  over  the  Alps. 

A  loneliness,  peculiar  to  traveling  alone,  swept 
over  me,  enhanced  by  my  inability,  not  knowing 
the  language,  to  carry  on  a  conversation  with  any 
one.  For  one  of  my  temperament  and  habits,  to 
go  for  hours  without  talking  was  torture.  After 
stowing  away  my  patent  leather  grip,  I  began 
humming  to  myself  the  song  popular  with  Ameri- 
can troops,  "It's  a  Long,  Long  Trail." 

There  was  another  passenger  in  the  compart- 
ment with  me,  who  afterwards  proved  to  be  a 
surgeon  in  the  French  Army.  He  looked  inquir- 
ingly at  me  and  I  scraped  an  acquaintance  as 
usual  by  making  motions.    I  tried  to  communicate 

(92) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  93 

to  him  my  destination  with  a  sweep  of  the  arm, 
which  had  in  it  the  full  compass  of  my  old  oration 
at  school:  "Over  the  Alps  Fair  Italy  Lies."  He 
caught  on  and  smiled.  We  continued  the  panto- 
mime until  I  suddenly  remembered  I  was  to  change 
cars  at  Andre.  The  train  was  local,  stopping  about 
every  four  minutes.  I  looked  out  of  the  window 
and  saw  the  name  of  the  station  in  letters  on  a  gas 
lamp,  though  almost  lost  to  view  in  the  lavish 
surroundings  of  advertising  signs. 

The  train  started  before  I  made  the  discovery. 
Undismayed  I  let  down  a  window,  threw  out  my 
valise,  and  following  myself,  landed  at  Andre. 
The  grip  made  a  "good  hit,"  for  it  landed  fair  on 
the  amplest  part  of  the  station  master.  What  he 
said  to  me  in  French  was,  perhaps,  better  that  I 
could  not  understand.  Catching  up  my  grip  I 
caught  the  connecting  train  for  Chambery.  This 
old  capital  of  Savoy  is  the  rest  billet  for  American 
soldiers  and  officers.  Mrs.  Baker  of  Boston  was 
in  charge  of  one  of  the  canteens,  and  I  had  baked 
beans  again  that  day. 

Arriving  at  the  hotel,  I  was  delighted  to  have 
the  Swiss  innkeeper  greet  me  in  English.  Pass- 
ports proclaim  nationality  on  the  face  of  them. 
His  card  for  registration  looked  like  a  checker- 
board.    It    was    marked    off    in    little    squares. 


94  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Evidently  it  was  his  custom  when  a  guest  arrived 
to  rub  one  of  these  squares  with  a  lead  pencil 
until  it  was  completely  blocked  out.  When  he 
looked  to  see  where  I  was  to  room,  the  card  was 
entirely  black,  not  a  white  space  remained.  "There 
was  no  room  in  the  inn." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  as  if  familiar  with  American  ways, 
"there  is  the  cafe." 

My  bed  for  the  night  was  the  chairs. 

It  was  raining,  as  usual,  when  I  woke  in  the 
morning.  In  the  rush  for  a  ticket  at  the  railway 
station,  I  hurriedly  passed  in  a  bill,  and  was 
handed  a  ticket  for  the  Modane  express.  My 
Italian  was  confined  to  one  word,  "Modane."  I 
knew  nothing  about  "class,"  being  an  American. 
The  porter  led  me  to  the  train,  where  I  found 
myself  in  a  third-class  coach  at  the  extreme  end. 
All  the  windows  in  the  car  had  been  broken.  An 
Alpine  blizzard  was  just  beginning  to  rage.  I  had 
the  car  all  to  myself,  except  a  number  of  railroad 
employees,  who  wore  capes,  and  looked  curiously 
at  the  shivering  Yankee  in  a  summer  suit,  who  was 
roaming  up  and  down  the  car  flinging  his  arms 
violently  together  to  keep  warm. 

Crossing  the  frontier  at  Modane  is  merely  the 
matter  of  passing  through  one  end  of  the  station  to 
the  other,  but  it  is  not  as  easy  as  it  seems.    There 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  95 

is  a  picket  fence  and  an  officer  midway.  The  sol- 
diers were  passed  on  recognition  of  their  uniforms. 
Civilians  must  show  cause.  The  first  degree  was 
to  prove  that  I  was  not  taking  any  considerable 
money  out  of  France.  A  paper  printed  in  all 
languages  was  placed  before  me,  much  after  the 
manner  of  an  oculist,  and  I  read  that  the  limit 
of  money  to  be  carried  out  was  five  thousand 
francs.  I  passed.  I  soon  convinced  him  that  the 
regulation  would  not  "embarrass"  me. 

Once  across  this  imaginary  line,  I  had  my  first 
meal  in  Italy.  The  waitress  told  me  there  was  no 
bread  and  that  I  must  use  potatoes  instead  and 
eat  the  spuds  with  the  jackets  on.  It  was  here 
that  I  met  a  group  of  American  naval  officers 
attached  to  U.  S.  N.  Flying  Corps  in  Italy.  They 
took  me  in  hand  and  I  was  assigned  to  a  handsome 
upholstered  room  in  a  wagon-lits,  or  sleeping  car, 
labeled  "Rome."  Now  I  could  enjoy  the  beau- 
tiful Alpine  scenery  from  a  plush  point  of  view. 

On  and  up  we  went,  our  train  finally  reaching 
the  snow-capped  mountains.  Laughing  cascades 
tumbled  from  precipitous  crags  and  poured  their 
"white-power"  into  the  rivers  below,  to  be  har- 
nessed to  electric  energy.  Passing  through  numer- 
ous tunnels,  our  train  suddenly  swung  out  on  a 
ledge  which  constituted  a  veritable  observation 


96  .  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

shelf,  bringing  into  view  the  sweeping  vista  of  the 
Savoy  Valley — easily  the  most  beautiful  I  have 
ever  seen.  Thrift  and  neatness  were  indicated 
in  every  farm  and  dwelling.  It  was  a  poem  of 
rural  beauty.  Looking  far  down  on  the  stately 
poplars,  they  stood  out  like  so  many  sentinels. 

At  Turin  (spelled  Turino  in  Italian),  I  entered 
a  restaurant,  where  I  had  soup  from  a  gigantic 
tureen,  a  name  fitting  well  with  the  town.  Here 
I  saw  for  the  first  time  English  nurses  wearing 
their  peculiar  lavender  veils  and  cloaks,  on  their 
way  to  Asiago.  Turin  is  a  great  manufacturing 
center.  The  factories  had  German  superinten- 
dents and  foremen.  There  was  also  a  large  German 
population  here.  The  town  furnishes  an  illustra- 
tion of  Sonnino's  plans  for  the  Triple  Alliance, 
inspired,  no  doubt,  by  commercial  motives.  Years 
before  the  King  of  Italy  visited  Emperor  Josef  of 
Austria,  but  the  latter  refused  to  return  the  visit. 
This  snub  furnished  the  setting  for  the  end  of 
Sonnino's  dream. 

When  war  was  imminent  Italy  broke  the  Alli- 
ance, the  people  unitedly  declaring  themselves 
ready  to  make  whatever  sacrifices  would  be  neces- 
sary for  the  cause.  A  small  group  of  influen- 
tial men  here  at  Turin  and  Milan  have  had  a 
determining  influence  in  the  war  policy  of  Italy. 


GIORNALE  D'lTALIA 


Parla  Mr.  Joe  Mitchell  Chappie 

Romani,  italiani,  compatrioti!  Cosi  salu- 
tandovi  sento  di  potervi  chiamare  "miei 
compatrioti,"  poiche  abbiamo  in  comune 
la  grande  civilta  lasciataci  in  eredita  dalla 
comune  madre — Roma. 

Tre  milioni  di  italiani  negli  Stati  Uniti 
formano  parte  integrale  del  nostro  paese, 
sono  sangue  del  nostro  sangue  e  insieme  a 
molti  altri  milioni  di  cittadini  costituisco- 
no,  in  quest'ora  fatidiea,  una  demoerazia 
mondiale  cosi  unita  come  lo  fu  l'ltalia  nel 
1870  e  1' America  nel  1865,  ad  Appomatox. 
Noi  siamo  orgogliosi  della  nostra  popola- 
zione  di  origine  italiana,  i  cui  figl  nelle  scuole 
di  Boston — l'Atene  della  coltura  americana — 
conqnistano  quasi  tutti  i  premi.  Sono  italiani 
che  costrniscono  le  nostre  strade,  che  innalzano 
i  nostri  edifici,  che  lavorano  nelle  nostre 
officine,  che  si  addestrano  nei  nostri  accam- 
pamenti  militari.  E  l'America  ama  quest' 
italia  generosa,  che,  come  gli  Stati  Uniti, 
entr6  spontanea  nella  guerra  che  segna  nella 
storia  umana  una  epoca  cosi  importante. 

L'ltalia,  del  resto,  non  puo  a  meno  di 
comprendere  tutta  la  simpatia,  l'affetto  e  la 
stima  che  si  provano  per  lei  in  America, 
poiche  di  tali  sentimenti  si  e  fatto  spesso 
interprete  il  nostro  distinto  ambasciatore, 
Thomas  Nelson  Page  e  ne  ha  data  prova  la 
nostra  Croce  Rossa,  diretta  da  quell'energi- 
•o  colonnello  Perkins  che  voi  tutti  cono- 
icete.  La  Croce  Rossa  e  l'avanguardia  che 
vi  indica  con  quale  spirito  verranno  in  se- 
■2uito  le  truppe  americane  e  spiegheranno 
•il  be!  cielo  azzurro  d'ltalia  la  bandiera  stellata 
che  vi  portera  il  messaggio  di  ratellanza  e  di 
amicizia  sintetizzato  nelle  parole  del  Presidente 
Wilson :  "non  un  soldo  per  conquiste  ma  miliardi 
per  la  difesa  del  l'ercdita  comune  a  tutta 
I'umanita." 

Dunque  avanti,  avanti  sempre  con  le  no- 
stre bandiere  intrecciate  e  sia  onore  a  Cle- 
menceau  della  bella  Francia,  onore  a  Lloyd 
George  della  invitta  Britannia,  onore  a  Wilson 
della  mia  America,  onore  ad  Orlando  della 
vostra  adorabile  Italia. 


REPORT  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  ADDRESS 

Which  appeared  in  the  leading  newspaper  of  Rome 


GENERAL  DIAZ,  COMMANDER  IN  CHIEF  OF  ITALIAN  ARMY 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  97 

When  the  red  maelstrom  broke,  Sonnino  stood  as 
a  rock  for  the  Allies. 

I  left  by  the  night  express.  Time  here  is  reck- 
oned by  numbering  successively  the  full  twenty- 
four  hours.  The  train  left  at  23.30.  There  was 
nothing  on  my  watch  which  enabled  me  to  find 
it,  and  I  came  near  missing  the  train.  The  sleeping 
car  ticket,  even  with  the  scarcity  of  paper,  was  as 
complete  as  a  bill  of  sale  in  contrast  to  the  thumb 
nail  slips  in  use  here.  The  back  of  it  was  covered 
with  advertisements.  The  conductor  and  porter 
are  one  person.  When  I  put  my  shoes  outside  of 
the  berth  to  be  shined,  he  called  to  me,  saying: 

"Better  take  your  shoes  in,  or  you  will  lose 
them." 

The  train  swept  on  through  Genoa  and  Pisa, 
affording  me  that  magnificent  marine  view  of  the 
Mediterranean.  As  we  neared  Rome,  I  saw  the 
camps  of  soldiers  on  the  beach  and  passed  the  great 
airdrome.  I  learned  that  the  German  air  raids  had 
extended  as  far  south  as  Naples  and  Rome. 

To  see  Rome  in  war  times!  Yes,  I  was  now 
actually  in  it.  The  train  skirted  the  ancient  walls 
now  sunken  by  time  into  the  earth;  on  over  the 
tawny  waters  of  the  River  Tiber,  and  through 
the  Seven  Hills.  As  I  sought  accommodations 
at   the   hotel   located   on   Pincon   Hill,  near   the 


98  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

palace  of  the  Dowager  Queen,  Longfellow's  poem, 
"Excelsior,"  came  to  my  mind. 

Rome  in  war  times  was  strangely  quiet.  Cabs 
were  drawn  by  horses  unfit  for  army  service.  It  is 
needless  to  say  their  progress  was  slow. 

The  first  impulse  in  arriving  in  these  centers  is 
immediately  to  seek  the  Red  Cross  headquarters. 
Here  Colonel  Robert  Perkins  was  in  charge,  as 
active  as  when  manager  of  a  great  carpet  manufac- 
tory in  the  United  States. 

Then  I  set  off  to  find  Ambassador  Page.  I  was 
accorded  a  real  Virginia  welcome.  Thomas  Nelson 
Page  was  a  literary  star  before  he  was  Ambassador, 
and  his  light  shines  as  brightly  in  the  firmament 
of  international  diplomacy.  There  was  a  reminis- 
cent look  in  his  eyes  when  I  told  him  of  the  war 
spirit  in  America. 

"You  arrived  just  in  time,"  he  said.  "There  is 
to  be  a  mass  meeting  in  honor  of  Clemenceau  in 
the  Argentine  Theatre  tonight.  All  the  ambassa- 
dors and  ministers  have  been  invited.  I  cannot 
go.    Would  you  like  to  occupy  my  box?" 

For  a  moment  I  tried  to  stretch  myself  up  to 
proper  diplomatic  stature.  I  thanked  him.  He 
continued : 

"You  represent  the  type  of  a  well-fed  and  happy 
American  anyhow." 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  99 

He  made  a  few  notes  about  things  I  ought  to  see 
and  when  duty  called  him,  I  left  for  a  later  call. 

Of  all  the  places  I  have  visited,  perhaps  none 
has  a  record  of  more  intensified  activity  than  the 
American  Red  Cross  in  Italy.  A  map  was  handed 
me  showing  the  peculiar  bootlike  topography  of 
the  country.  It  was  pin-dotted  all  over  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  including  the  adjacent  islands. 
In  miniature,  the  map  looked  like  a  part  of  the 
Milky  Way  and  the  dots  like  so  many  shining 
stars.  Certain  it  is  that  the  light  of  American  Red 
Cross  service  will  shine  in  the  firmament  of  Italy 
forever. 

I  saw  the  great  violinist,  Albert  Spaulding,  in 
Rome.  As  an  aviator  in  the  American  Flying 
Squadron,  he  looked  as  smart  as  when  I  saw  him 
last  in  a  dress  suit  in  Symphony  Hall,  Boston. 

He  glories  not  only  in  flights  on  a  musical  instru- 
ment, but  in  an  airplane  as  well.  In  the  Argentine 
Theatre  he  approached  after  I  had  spoken  and 
said :  "The  piano  wires  of  a  plane  are  more  familiar 
to  me  now  than  the  strings  of  a  violin." 

There  is  one  name  in  Rome  deserving  of  all 
praise — that  name  is  Cortesi,  the  Associated  Press 
correspondent.  Years  before  he  was  sent  to 
America  to  report  the  Italian  lynchings  in  Louisi- 
ana.    He  remained  in  America  for  some  time, 


100  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

living  in  Boston,  and  married  a  New  England 
woman.  In  bearing  he  is  modest  and  quiet,  the 
incarnation  of  diplomacy.  Indeed,  his  fine  mind 
has  untangled  many  complicated  skeins  while  in 
Rome.  His  news-dispatches  are  classics.  He  it 
was  who  opened  up  the  very  crux  of  the  war 
situation  in  Rome.  He  took  me  first  to  see  the  two 
legislative  bodies. 

I  first  visited  the  Italian  Senate.  The  building 
was  very  old.  There  was  an  absence  of  elaboration 
in  the  place.  Not  a  window  opened  to  the  outside. 
Light  was  admitted  from  the  ceiling.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  in  no  legislative  hall  I  ever  visited  was 
there  opportunity  for  eavesdropping.  Those  ap- 
pointed to  the  Senate  are  in  office  for  life.  It  was 
here  I  first  saw  Guglielmo  Marconi,  the  inventor 
of  the  wireless. 

The  discussion  was  in  interpreting  the  educa- 
tional bill.  Distinguished  senators  were  pointed 
out,  one  of  whom,  the  director  of  the  Conservatory 
of  Music,  was  preparing  a  concert  of  ail-American 
music.  The  selections  ranged  all  the  way  from 
the  classic  to  ragtime,  the  latter  embracing  "A  Hot 
Time  in  the  Old  Town"  and  "Keep  the  Home 
Fires  Burning."  Among  the  Senators  was  one 
over  a  hundred  years  old.  I  met  him  later  and  was 
pleased  to  note  he  spoke  some  English.    He  said: 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  101 

"Our  country  is  much  younger  than  America, 
but  we  are  learning  fast." 

Then  drawing  himself  up  proudly,  said: 
"Age  counts  and  I  am  past  the  century  mark." 
From  here  I  went  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies, 
which,  in  contradistinction  to  the  Senate,  was  a 
lively  place.  The  Chamber  of  Deputies  is  the  real 
law-making  body  of  Italy.  People  gather  outside 
every  day  to  see  the  members  come  and  go.  Prepa- 
rations were  being  made  to  enlarge  the  hall. 
Brick  and  mortar  were  already  in  evidence.  I 
entered  through  a  dark  corridor.  In  a  long  hall 
were  the  busts  of  Cavour,  Garibaldi,  and  some 
twelve  who  were  identified  with  the  unification  of 
modern  Italy. 

We  were  conducted  by  a  uniformed  messenger 
through  folding  doors  to  a  winding  stairway  which 
led  to  the  gallery.  And  the  stairway  was  so  long 
that  I  had  the  sensation  of  climbing  Bunker  Hill 
Monument.  It  finally  emerged  into  the  gallery 
from  which  we  looked  down  upon  the  House  and 
the  proceedings.  The  gallery  was  as  high  over  the 
main  floor  as  the  galleries  in  our  deepest  theaters. 
Unlike  the  Senate  I  had  visited,  the  members  here 
were  comparatively  young  men.  They  are  elected 
by  the  direct  vote  of  the  people.  The  presiding 
officer   had   just   partaken   of   afternoon   refresh- 


102  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

merits.  On  the  desk  in  front  of  him  where  the 
repast  was  served  could  be  seen  a  number  of  tiny 
glasses;  the  only  thing  missing  was  the  ketchup 
bottle.  During  the  discussion  the  speaker  looked 
at  the  spectators  through  opera  glasses;  it  seemed 
as  if  they  rested  on  me. 

The  Cabinet  members  sat  in  front  and  below 
the  speaker.  It  was  a  stirring  scene.  I  could  not 
understand  the  discussion,  but  those  who  were 
participating  in  it  were  gesticulating  in  the  most 
violent  fashion. 

After  the  session  we  dropped  into  the  cafe  which 
is  the  habitat  of  journalists  and  lawmakers  in 
Rome.  It  is  said  that  the  legislation  of  Italy  is 
shaped  in  what  is  called  the  pharmacy.  This  had 
the  familiar  sound  of  newspaper  "dope." 

As  we  hurried  along  my  friend,  Cortesi,  pointed 
out  many  historic  places.  All  seemed  to  have  lost 
interest  for  me,  even  the  Capiscum,  with  its  sacred 
bones  of  the  monks.  The  only  interest  it  had  was 
that  it  revived  Hawthorne's  "Marble  Faun." 
The  one  conspicuous  thing  of  modern  Rome  is 
the  tunnel  running  under  one  of  the  Seven  Hills. 

In  the  evening  the  one  hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  original  production  of  Rossini's  "Moses" 
was  celebrated.  Even  in  war  times  Rome  did 
not  forget  to  honor  her  great  composer.     It  was 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  103 

attended  by  statesmen,  prominent  people  and  uni- 
formed army  officers.  For  me  there  was  a  double 
bill  that  night.  I  not  only  attended  this  anni- 
versary, but  also  the  gathering  at  the  Argentine 
Theater.  Leaving  for  the  latter  place  in  a  cab, 
I  found  a  great  concourse  of  people,  many  waiting 
outside.  I  was  conducted  to  the  Ambassador's 
box.  These  theater  boxes  are  in  a  semicircle,  and 
rise,  tier  above  tier,  to  the  very  ceiling.  As  I 
entered,  there  was  great  excitement  on.  the  floor. 
I  learned  that  some  one  had  challenged  the  state- 
ments of  the  chairman  and  the  purpose  of  the 
meeting.  Officers  were  hustling  disturbers  out  of 
the  theatre,  women  were  being  jostled  and  their 
hats  brushed  off  in  the  confusion.  It  resembled 
an  American  political  convention.  The  band 
began  to  play  to  restore  quiet. 

The  stage  was  filled  with  dignitaries  and  adorned 
with  the  flags  of  four  of  the  Allied  powers,  Italy, 
Great  Britain,  France  and  America.  My  eye  no 
sooner  caught  the  Stars  and  Stripes  than  I  saw  it 
in  distress.  The  star  field  was  upside  down. 
Just  then  an  officer  knocked  on  the  door  of  the 
box  where  I  was  sitting.  I  did  not  understand 
what  he  said,  but  it  did  not  matter,  I  understood 
his  motions.  He  conducted  me  down  a  corridor, 
back  of  the  scenes,  and  out  on  the  stage.    I  was 


104  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

offered  a  chair  and  crossed  my  legs  in  the  usual 
way.  I  happened  to  be  near  my  own  flag.  When 
I  arose  to  adjust  it,  putting  the  field  where  it 
should  be,  the  audience  laughed  and  applauded. 

As  each  orator  addressed  the  gathering,  I 
watched  the  faces  and  joined  when  they  applauded, 
just  as  if  I  understood  what  was  being  said — which 
I  didn't.  Senator  Lorand  of  Belgium,  who  spoke 
in  Italian,  was  a  large  man  with  bushy,  pointed 
whiskers,  ballasted  by  newspapers  sticking  out 
of  his  pockets  on  both  sides.  In  sharp  contrast 
to  him  was  the  trim  Mignon,  the  representative 
of  France.  La  Garda,  an  American  clad  in  khaki, 
addressed  them  in  his  own  language.  He  was  born 
in  America  of  Italian  parents,  and  is  a  member 
of  the  House  of  Representatives  in  Washington. 

When  the  chairman  motioned  to  me,  indicating 
that  I  was  to  speak,  I  was  amazed.  But  the  audi- 
ence seemed  friendly. 

Whenever  in  my  speech  I  mentioned  President 
Wilson,  Americano,  the  audience  cheered.  It  was 
the  same  when  I  spoke  the  name  of  Ambassador 
Page.  When  I  referred  to  Lloyd  George  and 
pointed  to  the  British  flag,  they  broke  loose  again. 
At  the  name  of  Orlando  they  stormed.  As  I 
uttered  the  words  "Clemenceau  of  La  Belle 
France,"  the  applause  was  long  and  continuous; 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  105 

and  finally  when  I  spoke  of  the  American  troops 
coming  and  the  "Stars  and  Stripes  soon  to  be 
unfurled  in  the  fair  skies  of  Italia,"  pandemonium 
reigned.  The  band  struck  up  "The  Star  Spangled 
Banner,"  the  audience  rising  and  cheering. 

Next  morning,  to  my  surprise,  my  speech  was 
printed  in  full  in  all  the  papers  and  had  been  cabled 
overseas.  When  I  saw  the  Ambassador,  he  smiled 
and  said: 

"Your  florid  and  fervid  Fourth  of  July  oratory 
lends  itself  beautifully  to  Italian  translation.  I 
have  arranged  for  you  to  meet  Nite,  Minister  of 
Finance. 

I  wondered  if  he  knew  I  needed  financing  just 
then! 

(  Translation  of  the  speech  at  the  Argentine  Theatre ) 

Romans,  Italians,  Countrymen: 

The  salutation  has  a  new  meaning  these  days,  for  my 
countrymen  indeed  you  are.  Italia,  America  and  the  Allies 
have  become  compatriots  in  the  great  right  for  civilization 
— a  common  heritage  that  came  in  the  dawn  of  the  republic 
of  ancient  Rome.  The  messages  of  our  own  President 
Wilson  have  already  revealed  the  great  purpose  of  our 
country. 

Three  million  Italians  in  America  have  become  an  integral 
part  of  my  country,  bone  and  sinew  of  the  nation,  joining 
with  other  millions  of  adopted  sons  to  help  in  this  hour  of 
destiny.    As  united  Italy  was  given  you  in  1870,  so  a  United 


106  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

States  was  born  in  the  peace  at  Appomattox  and  has  become 
a  union,  one  and  inseparable.  Italian  children  winning 
the  prizes  at  school  in  Boston,  Italians  helping  in  building 
warships  and  camps,  Italians  helping  in  all  war  prepara- 
tions, and  Italians  in  the  ranks  of  our  soldiers,  has  made 
the  United  States  a  close  kin  to  united  Italy. 

Through  acts  and  deeds  our  distinguished  Ambassador, 
Thomas  Nelson  Page,  has  made  known  to  you  the  love  of 
America.  The  activities  of  the  American  Red  Cross, 
headed  by  Colonel  Robert  Perkins,  indicate  the  spirit 
of  the  arriving  American  troops  as  they  unfurl  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  in  the  blue  skies  of  Italy.  The  utterances  of 
our  own  President  Wilson  in  his  masterful  leadership  has 
made  you  understand  us  joining  in  the  contest  of  "not 
one  penny  for  tribute  or  conquest,  but  millions  for  defence" 
for  the  rights  of  free  peoples — a  common  heritage.  So 
forward  with  the  entwined  banners  with  the  leaders  of  the 
people,  Clemenceau  in  La  Belle  France,  Lloyd  George  of 
Brittania,  our  own  Wilson  and  Lansing  of  America,  and 
your  own  Orlando  of  Italy  supporting  Diaz,  Haig  and 
Pershing  and  their  valiant  men  to  the  finish.  "Vive  la 
Italia  and  the  Alliance  for  Humanity." 


X 


ORLANDO  AND  ITALY'S  LAWMAKERS 


THE  story  of  Italy  in  the  war  cannot  be  told 
without  reference  to  Orlando,  the  Premier, 
and  the  silent  Sonnino,  the  Foreign  Minister. 
There  was  a  similarity  to  that  of  the  United  States 
in  the  Italian  position  before  entering  the  war.  To 
understand  it  one  must  go  back  to  the  days  of 
the  Triple  Alliance,  when  German  investments 
were  pouring  into  Italy,  and  factories  Hun-manned 
were  utilized  to  create  commercial  ties  which 
would  compel  the  extension  of  the  treaty  to  em- 
brace an  offensive,  as  well  as  defensive  alliance. 
The  people  of  Italy  rose  to  the  situation,  and 
Sonnino  was  brought  to  the  test  of  patriotic 
statesmanship.  He  realized  the  inevitable  and 
changed  "about  face" — solid  as  a  rock. 

To  see  Sonnino  is  to  understand  the  power  that 
has  made  Italy,  after  the  chaotic  struggles  of 
centuries,  a  nationalized  entity.  Sonnino  began 
his  career  as  a  journalist  and  founded  the  Giornale 

(107) 


108  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

D'ltalia,  one  of  the  most  powerful  papers  in  the 
kingdom.  He  talks  to  the  people  of  Italy  through 
his  newspapers  because  he  understands  how  to 
present  his  views  in  cold  type.  In  the  Chamber,  his 
addresses,  devoid  of  rhetoric  or  oratory,  lack  inter- 
est to  hold  the  crowds;  but  undeterred,  Sonnino 
goes  on  to  the  conclusion.  Although  directing 
the  finances  and  enormous  war  expenditures  of 
Italy,  he  remains  a  comparatively  poor  man,  hav- 
ing but  one  passion — his  beloved  Italia. 

Sonnino's  deep-set  eyes,  shock  of  gray  hair  and 
rather  cadaverous  look,  indicate  the  parentage  of  a 
Jewish  father  and  Scotch  mother.  His  genius 
in  meeting  the  vexatious  financial  problems  of 
Italy  has  revealed  the  sturdy  Scotch  thrift  of  his 
maternal  forbears. 

Orlando,  Premier  of  Italy,  ignited  the  war  fever 
of  his  countrymen  when  he  declared  that  Italy 
would  never  make  a  separate  peace.  The  die  was 
cast.  Orlando,  the  voice  of  Italy,  had  declared  it. 
Orlando  is  a  native  of  Sicily,  and  upon  him  fell 
the  mantle  of  the  famous  Crispi.  He  looks  like 
an  American,  has  iron  gray  hair  and  mustache 
and  an  air  of  gentleness  that  wins  the  individual 
as  well  as  audience.  In  his  office  at  Rome  is 
an  atmosphere  of  quiet  dignity;  his  conversation 
is  never  staccato,  but  rather  mellow  in  tone,  and 


Cest  la  Guerre— It  is  the  War  109 

his  manner  puts  the  visitor  at  ease.  His  speeches 
in  the  Chamber  are  made  in  closer  range  to  the 
members  than  in  any  other  legislative  body.  His 
addresses  have  the  nature  of  conferences,  and 
when  he  makes  a  statement  from  the  bench,  it  is 
rounded  out  with  the  eloquent  periods  and  beauti- 
ful phrases  characteristic  of  the  Italian  language. 

Orlando  had  been  a  professor  of  law  in  the 
University  of  Rome,  and  was  considered  one  of  the 
most  able  writers  and  speakers  in  Italy,  but  it 
was  little  dreamed  that  he  would  ever  become 
Premier.  Later  when  I  saw  him  at  Turin,  in  a 
special  car  leaving  for  Abbeville,  France,  where 
the  Premiers  of  England,  France  and  Italy  have 
had  frequent  conferences,  the  station  was  thronged 
to  honor  the  Italian  leader.  He  was  presented 
a  massive  bouquet.  Clad  in  overcoat  and  fully 
gloved,  he  was  ready  for  the  chilly  trip  across 
the  Alps.  His  manner  and  words  in  addressing 
the  people  at  the  station  were  such  as  might  be 
expected  in  a  triumphal  mass  meeting.  Leaving 
the  station,  he  smiled  as  cheers  and  bravos  followed 
him,  and  once  within  the  little  green  car  in  which 
he  travels,  he  again  took  up  his  work,  going  over 
papers  and  dispatches,  with  the  same  ease  as  if 
in  his  office  at  Rome. 

At  the  Department  of  Finance  I  met  Senator 


110  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Marconi,  inventor  of  the  wireless.  It  had  been 
raining  hard,  and  coats  and  umbrellas  lay  upon 
the  table.  While  we  were  waiting  for  the  interview 
with  Secretary  Nite,  Marconi,  the  Italian  inven- 
tive genius,  told  me  that  it  was  at  Newfoundland, 
on  December  12,  1901,  at  12.30  p.  m.,  that  he 
received  the  distinct  electric  signals  over  the 
Atlantic,  transmitting  the  first  message  overseas 
without  cable.  This  was  the  culmination  of 
years  of  experiment.  His  idiomatic  English  was 
refreshing  as  he  continued: 

"My  troubles  came  with  the  short-distance 
wireless,  from  two  miles  to  two  hundred  and 
twenty-five.  The  two-mile  limit  was  the  bar- 
rier. The  difficulty  was  overcome  after  much 
discouragement. ' ' 

Born  in  Bologna,  the  son  of  an  Irish  mother  and 
an  Italian  landed  proprietor,  Marconi  has  become 
a  world  figure.  Early  in  youth  he  was  attracted 
to  the  study  of  electricity,  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen 
had  begun  the  development  of  wireless  telegraphy. 
When  I  referred  to  the  operations  of  the  navies 
in  the  war,  so  largely  dependent  on  the  product 
of  his  genius,  and  asked  him  the  secret,  he  said: 

"It  is  nothing  but  a  sort  of  electrical  earthquake. 
The  static  electricity  of  the  ether  is  energized  by 
the  oscillating  current  sent  up  and  down  the  aerial 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  111 

wire,  and  is.  diffused  through  infinity  of  space. 
An  earthquake  is  a  manifestation  of  the  material 
electricity.  If  a  weight  could  be  raised  sufficiently 
high,  the  shock  of  its  fall  could  be  felt  across  the 
sea." 

"So  it  is  a  question  of  shocks?"  said  I. 

"Everything  is  more  or  less  a  matter  of  shocks. 
You  are  delighted  with  music  or  literature — that 
gives  you  the  mental  shocks." 

In  a  soft,  well-modulated  voice  he  paid  his 
tribute  to  Morse,  Edison,  and  Elisha  Gray,  but 
seemed  more  inclined  to  talk  about  the  war  and 
to  learn  the  news  from  America  than  about  his 
scientific  and  inventive  triumphs. 

Almost  every  ship  that  floats  in  the  sea  is  now 
using  wireless,  which  recalls  that  less  than  twenty 
years  ago  Mr.  Marconi  came  to  England  and  was 
given  the  resources  of  the  post-office  for  experiment 
and  trial.  At  that  time  it  was  concluded  that 
wireless  would  be  limited,  like  the  telephone. 
The  present  war  has  proven  it  otherwise. 

A  peculiar  thing  is  that  the  wires  receiving  the 
waves  must  be  perpendicular  rather  than  horizon- 
tal, and  four  hundred  feet  is  about  the  elevation 
required. 

"My  dream  was  to  have  the  wireless  so  you 
could  call  a  friend,  not  knowing  where  he  was, 


112  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

sending  forth  the  message,  'Where  are  you?'  He 
might  reply,  'I  am  in  a  coal  mine,'  'in  the  Andes,' 
or  'on  the  ocean,'  but  no  matter,  he  is  near  at  hand, 
thus  hoping  that  through  the  ether  we  might  bring 
the  world  closer  together." 

I  introduced  Mr.  Marconi  to  a  number  of  navy 
lads  standing  near  the  Embassy,  who  looked  on 
him  as  a  wizard,  and  insisted  they  felt  an  electric 
thrill  when  they  shook  hands.  The  compliment 
was  superb  when  they  turned  and  said:  "There 
is  the  wizard  that  has  saved  many  a  good  ship." 
This  tribute  coming  from  the  lips  of  yeomen  and 
seamen  was  as  eloquent  as  the  studied  praise  of 
the  admiral. 

As  I  sat  looking  at  him  I  thought  what  great 
things  had  come  from  his  brain.  All  the  infinitude 
of  space  was  now  vibrating  with  limitless  mes- 
sages, making  the  heavens  speak  as  the  ripples  of 
sound  radiate  around  the  earth,  defying  all  bound- 
aries or  barriers. 

The  Minister  of  Finance,  Nite,  a  rather  stout 
man  with  pompadour  hair  and  mustache,  was  a 
member  of  the  Italian  Commission  to  America. 
It  was  evident  from  the  reception  he  accorded  me 
that  he  was  a  friend  of  Americans. 

"Every  moment,"  he  said,  "of  my  visit  to  America 
meant  much  to  me.     It  revealed  that  the  mental 


■HHHHBEHBHBBHHBH! 


mm**  ™& 


HBHHI 

Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

ORLANDO,  PREMIER  OF  ITALY 


Copyright  by  Underwood  .V-  Underwood 

GUGLIELMO  MARCONI,  SENATOR  AND  INVENTOR 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  113 

attitude  of  the  world  is  much  the  same,  and  that 
physical  problems  vary  only  in  degree.  Since  the 
war,  in  common  with  all  Italians,  America  does 
not  to  me  seem  three  thousand  miles  away." 

In  speaking  of  my  trip,  he  said:  "You  must 
have  observed  that  Italians  feel  a  close  kin  to  your 
country.  Everyone  who  has  been  in  America 
seems  to  count  on  his  sojourn  there  as  the  epic  of 
his  life.  Time  is  dated  before  and  after  he  has  been 
in  America." 

"Will  many  Italians  return  to  America  after 
the  war?"  I  asked. 

"Doubtless  there  will  be  many  who  will  want 
to  come,  but  can  we  spare  them? — that  is  the 
question." 

While  in  the  United  States  Nite  met  the 
President  and  all  officials,  and  insisted  that  Presi- 
dent Wilson's  messages  were  quite  as  familiar  to 
Italians  as  those  of  their  own  public  men. 

"Long  ago  I  developed  a  high  regard  for  your 
distinguished  Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  William 
G.  McAdoo,  who  has  made  rapid  strides  in  clarify- 
ing the  mysteries  of  finance  as  an  everyday  propo- 
sition to  the  people;  or,  in  other  words,  the  Treas- 
ury selling  bonds  direct  to  the  people  rather  than 
through  the  mystic  shadows  of  brokers." 

An  important  conference  terminated  an  inter- 


114  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

view  which  promised  much.     Nite  is  pronounced 
one  of  the  coming  men  of  Italy. 

As  I  came  out  I  saw  the  usual  throng  before  the 
office  of  Orlando — a  peculiar  Italian  custom  of 
honor  to  their  leaders.  The  Premier  acknowledged 
the  greeting  of  the  populace  and  seemed  in  excellent 
spirits — with  some  degree  of  appropriateness,  for 
he  had  just  been  selected  by  the  Allies  to  take 
charge  of  the  affairs  pertaining  to  after-the-war 
conditions — a  real  compliment  to  Italy  and  her 
lawmakers. 


XI 


SIEGED  VENICE  BY  NIGHT  AND  DAY 


FALLING  bombs  announced  the  war  carnival 
in  Venice.  The  doves  of  St.  Marco  had 
flown.  In  the  darkness,  the  silver  sheen 
of  the  canals  alone  gave  the  aviators  location, 
and,  strangely  enough,  the  canals  received  most 
of  the  bombs — thus  saving  the  historic  spires  of 
the  city. 

No  other  place  in  Europe  is  more  difficult  to 
visit  in  war  time  than  Venice.  It  is  easier  to  make 
a  tour  of  the  first-line  trenches  than  to  pass  the 
sentinel  of  the  Minister  of  Marine,  for  he  is  en- 
trusted with  the  sublime  task  of  saving  the 
"Mistress  of  the  Adriatic." 

A  letter  to  the  Commando  Supremo,  General 
Diaz,  was  my  credential  to  unlock  the  gates  inside 
the  zone  of  army  operations,  but  this  was  not 
sufficient.  It  needed  a  pass  from  the  Minister  of 
Marine. 

On  the  train  from  Rome,  the  vision  of  Venice 

(115) 


116  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

with  its  Doges'  palaces,  St.  Mark's  and  the 
Grand  Canal  haunted  me.  How  would  it  look  as 
compared  with  the  glory  in  which  I  had  seen  it? 

The  train  was  crowded  with  officers  in  the  first- 
class  and  soldiers  in  the  third-class  compartments. 
Some  were  grim  and  some  were  gay — a  marked 
contrast  to  the  days  of  Cook's  tourists.  Com- 
plaints of  service  or  poor  meals  on  the  diner,  or 
impatience  at  delayed  trains  were  no  longer  heard. 
The  solid  troop  trains  to  and  from  the  front  had 
the  right  of  way. 

At  Bologna  I  had  a  breakfast  in  keeping  with  its 
name.  Sweeping  over  the  plains  of  Venetia  to 
Padua,  and  then  on  to  the  Maestro,  evidences  of 
the  war  accumulated  mile  by  mile.  When  the 
lagoons  were  sighted  in  the  soft  twilight,  the  train 
rattled  over  the  long  viaduct  much  as  over  the 
sea  at  Key  West.  In  the  distance  was  Venice 
now  fading  into  the  gloom  of  another  night.  At 
the  station  in  Venetia,  guards  were  stern  and  un- 
bending. They  required  passport  and  identifica- 
tion. Only  the  week  before  real  celebrities  and 
prominent  writers  had  been  turned  back  because 
of  some  technicality  in  their  credentials.  They 
take  no  chances  on  strangers.  Officers  'phone  and 
wire  ahead  just  who  is  expected  and  when.  Venice 
is  closed  tight  against  spies.     Through  the  gate 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  117 

were  the  outlines  of  a  gondola,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  suggest  the  gay  life  of  her  former  days. 

Looking  about  to  get  my  bearings,  I  was  accosted 
by  an  officer,  who  looked  me  over  with  suspicion, 
and  finally  put  his  hand  on  my  arm,  as  if  making 
an  arrest.  When  I  tried  to  explain  in  my  jumble 
of  Italian  and  English,  he  said:  "American  Con- 
sul," and  indicated  I  was  to  follow  him.  My 
passport,  No.  10891,  was  again  peppered  with  a 
purple  stamp,  but  even  then  he  kept  saying 
"American  Consul."  Had  something  gone  wrong 
with  my  papers,  I  wondered,  and  was  I  to  be 
hailed  before  the  authorities  to  spend  the  night  in 
custody?  On  the  war  front  nothing  is  surprising. 
I  caught  step  with  him  in  military  fashion  and 
accompanied  him.  When  about  to  step  into  what 
looked  like  the  police  patrol  gondola,  I  was  in- 
formed by  a  keen-eyed  young  American  in  khaki — 
and  the  only  American  I  had  seen  since  leaving 
Rome,  who  evidently  had  overheard  the  Italian 
officer's  conversation — that  the  American  Consul 
expected  me  on  an  earlier  train,  but,  being  obliged 
to  leave,  detailed  these  officers  to  provide  a  safe 
escort  to  his  home. 

It  is  safe  to  presume  I  froze  to  my  escort.  We 
glided  along  the  Grand  Canal  and  under  the  his- 
toric Rialto.    Here  and  there  demolished  buildings 


118  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

stood  out  like  spectres  in  the  darkness.  Not  even 
the  night  could  hide  the  ravages  of  the  air  raids. 

This  was  Venice,  yes,  the  scene  of  countless 
carnivals  and  fetes,  but  now  ghostly  and  defiant, 
awaiting,  maybe,  another  avalanche  of  death  with 
the  new  moon!  As  we  became  accustomed  to  the 
murky  shadows,  following  the  weird  wake  of  light 
along  the  Canal,  Venice  in  the  dark  became  almost 
more  fascinating  than  Venice  in  the  light. 

Few  people  were  on  the  street  or  in  the  callas 
after  nightfall,  and  what  few  there  were  hugged  the 
ancient  walls.  The  barred  windows  of  the  closed 
shops  indicated  that  most  of  the  "Merchants  of 
Venice"  had  gone.  A  mist  swept  in  from  the  sea, 
as  we  turned  a  sharp  corner  and  arrived  at  the 
home  of  the  American  Consul,  Mr.  Harvey  Carroll. 
Like  most  of  the  residents  of  Venice,  he  lives  on 
the  second  floor,  to  escape  the  dampness.  Through 
the  darkness  of  what  appeared  to  be  a  subterranean 
entrance,  I  found  the  home  haven  of  the  American 
Consul  and  his  charming  wife.  They  radiated  a 
Southern  welcome.  Without  gas  to  cook  with,  but 
with  the  pluck  of  an  American  housewife,  Mrs. 
Carroll  had  prepared  the  evening  meal  by  fanning 
the  embers  of  charcoal  on  a  stone  table  fireplace. 
Even  a  cup  of  hot  water  was  a  luxury  in  the 
besieged  city. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  119 

Of  the  one  hundred  and  forty  thousand  people 
who  once  Galled  Venice  home,  only  a  few  thousand 
are  left.  The  gondolas  which  used  to  glide  over 
the  placid  surfaces  of  the  canal,  gay  with  laughter 
and  music,  were  no  more.  What  few  remained 
were  on  official  business.  This,  together  with  the 
population  gone,  made  Venice  almost  a  tomb.  The 
puffing  motor  boats  made  a  somewhat  lively  scene 
as  they  passed  here  and  there  conveying  supplies. 

The  day  before  the  people  observed  one  of  the 
traditional  holidays  of  the  Republic,  but  instead 
of  the  strumming  guitars  and  the  lilting  songs,  the 
merrymaking  was  confined  to  little  groups  who 
showered  blossoms  on  the  waters  of  the  Adriatic. 
The  weird  cry  of  a  gondolier  as  he  turned  the 
corner,  as  in  the  old  days,  was  heard  no  more. 
In  place  of  the  merry  life,  which  was  once  the 
charm  of  Venice,  had  come  the  sordid  spectre 
of  war.  Barges  laden  with  barrels,  casks  and  bales 
now  occupy  the  centre  of  the  picture.  A  strange 
Venice  to  those  who  knew  it  in  the  old  days,  but 
a  Venice  becoming  better  loved  because  of  its 
heroic  resistance  and  willing  sacrifices. 

All  day  long  there  was  the  intermittent  roar 
of  the  distant  guns.  The  people  who  have  remained 
are  so  pitifully  poor  that  they  could  not  leave  if 
they  wished  to.    Under  the  curtain  of  the  night, 


120  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Paris  and  London  present  no  such  gloomy  appear- 
ance. Even  the  glistening  shadows  of  the  clouds  on 
the  Grand  Canal  brought  only  fear.  Night  attacks 
have  been  more  frequent  here  than  in  any  other 
city.  Somehow  Ruskin's  "Stones  of  Venice"  came 
to  mind  as  I  stumbled  over  the  slippery  walks 
during  a  rainy  night  tour  of  the  city.  Every  light 
was  out.  Even  the  flash  of  a  match  was  prohib- 
ited. A  dull  moon  presaged  a  raid  that  night, 
but  none  came. 

Sand  bags  protecting  buildings,  statues,  and 
historic  columns  were  everywhere.  They  could 
even  be  found  on  the  lower  floor  of  the  homes  to 
provide  protection  from  the  overhead  destruction. 
No  less  than  three  hundred  bombs  had  been 
counted  in  a  single  night;  but  Venice  seemed  to 
bear  a  charmed  life,  comparatively  little  damage 
being  done.  In  spite  of  the  hellish  Hun,  most  of 
the  historic  shrines  still  stand. 

In  one  of  the  refugee  cellars  of  a  school,  a  scene 
occurred  never  to  be  forgotten.  A  flashlight  photo- 
graph, which  has  had  a  world-wide  appeal,  was 
made.  The  Sister  who  had  charge  of  the  school 
had  called  the  little  children  to  her  side  in  an 
effort  to  gather  them  as  a  hen  gathers  her  chickens 
under  her  wings.  Boom!  boom!  boom!  roared  the 
bombs  outside.    The  little  children  crouched,  with 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  121 

wide  open  and  startled  eyes,  yet  they  were  brave. 
They  seemed  to  feel  they  were  quite  safe  so  long 
as  the  protecting  spirit  of  the  Sister  was  over  and 
around  them.  I  met  the  Sister  who  related  to  me 
the  story  of  that  night. 

An  Italian  officer  said  to  me  in  careful  and  delib- 
erate phrase:  "It  was  the  American  Red  Cross 
which  saved  our  people  from  starvation,  for  little 
food  has  come  into  the  city  during  the  past 
year." 

Not  even  the  people  of  Belgium  have  more 
generously  expressed  their  gratitude  for  relief 
given  than  the  people  in  war-stricken  Venice. 
The  condition  of  the  poor  could  not  have  been 
more  pitiable  than  when  the  Red  Cross  came  as 
an  Angel  of  Mercy. 

Bright  and  early  next  morning  I  followed  the 
fast-walking  and  alert  American  Consul,  Harvey 
Carroll,  and  watched  him  as  he  superintended 
the  beginning  of  the  day's  activities  at  the  Maga- 
zine where  the  people  came  to  obtain  food  and 
supplies.  Rice  and  cornmeal  were  provided,  and 
many  of  the  products  on  the  shelves  had  familiar 
labels.  The  Magazine  was  in  charge  of  bright 
Venetian  girls,  some  of  distinguished  lineage,  who 
stayed  steadily  by  their  task,  in  contradistinction 
to  the  criminal  and  lower  classes,  who  fled  at  the 


122  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

first  sight  of  danger.  It  is  easy  to  detect  the 
streak  of  yellow  in  individuals  amid  the  red  flame 
of  war. 

Every  train  arriving  and  leaving  the  city  was 
met  by  a  delegation  from  the  Consul,  and  each 
prqfughi,  or  refugee,  was  provided  with  enough 
food  to  take  him  to  his  destination.  The  refugees 
are  scattered  all  over  Italy.  The  American  Red 
Cross  unites  with  the  Italian  Red  Cross  and  the 
Government  in  caring  for  these,  and  provides 
an  opportunity  for  them  to  earn  a  livelihood  in 
making  war  supplies. 

After  a  walk  which  encompassed  nearly  every 
street  in  Venice,  I  paused  long  enough  to  catch  my 
breath  and  make  a  notation. 

Mr.  Carroll  was  born  in  Texas  and  is  a  graduate 
of  an  European  university.  His  hearty  and  good- 
natured  manner  has  made  him  a  beloved  figure  in 
Venice.  He  has  demonstrated  that  the  wide 
range  of  work  of  both  Consul  and  Red  Cross 
representative  can  be  efficiently  combined.  On 
the  streets  the  people  met  him  with  a  smile  and 
doffed  their  hats  in  a  deference  worthy  a  Doge. 
Just  then  a  group  of  boys  approached  him,  their 
toes  sticking  through  their  shoes.  Looking  up  at 
him,  they  said  in  broken  English: 

"Shoes  go  bad — Consul  go  good." 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  123 

"Si,  si"  replied  the  Consul,  with  a  benevolent 
smile. 

Even  the  boys  looked  on  him  as  the  magic 
cobbler. 

Twenty-three  separate  activities  of  the  Red 
Cross  are  located  in  this  district,  and  every  one  is 
doing  a  needed  and  appreciated  work.  We  entered 
a  hospital  which  had  been  bombed,  picking  our 
way  through  the  shattered  glass  in  the  courtyard. 
A  group  of  people  had  gathered  for  coffee.  Over 
eleven  hundred  children  are  cared  for  and  two 
thousand  meals  served  each  day.  In  the  faces  of 
those  outside  who  were  given  but  one  meal  a  day, 
radiated  a  gratitude  that  was  good  to  see.  In  the 
hearts  of  the  people  of  Italy,  the  ministrations  of 
the  Red  Cross  will  live  forever. 

Periods  of  prosperity  and  glory  may  yet  come 
to  Italy,  but  the  great-hearted  and  open-handed 
generosity  of  America,  responding  as  it  did  to  the 
cry  for  food,  will  be  cherished  as  long  as  Venice, 
one  of  the  oldest  republics,  endures,  and  constitute 
forever  bonds  of  affection  for  the  younger  Republic 
over  the  seas. 

At  the  Rialto,  which  is  the  ferry  landing,  old 
men  and  women  were  bearing  huge  milk  cans; 
this,  with  the  garden  truck  which  the  others 
brought  in,  was  a  faded  picture  of  the  markets  in 


124  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  old  days.  In  the  harbor,  and  far  out  on  the 
Adriatic,  could  be  detected  the  tiny  red  sails  dis- 
tinctive of  the  fishing  craft.  These  were  bringing 
in  sea  food  to  supplement  the  loaves  of  the  Red 
Cross. 

On  one  of  my  rambles  in  Venice  I  lost  my  way, 
trying  a  short  cut  through  a  piazzetta  that  curved 
about  like  the  streets  of  Boston.  Most  of  the 
persons  met  were  women.  Was  I  to  confess  that 
I  was  lost?  The  time  was  approaching  for  my 
boat  to  leave  and  I  could  no  longer  parley  with 
vanity.  Lifting  my  hat  as  gallantly  as  I  could,  I 
accosted  a  little  girl  who  was  bearing  a  bundle 
and  whom  I  addressed  as  "Signorita,"  believing 
I  was  safe  in  my  Italian  that  far  at  least,  but  I 
found  I  could  go  no  farther,  so  began  making 
motions.  Then  shouted  louder  to  try  and  make 
my  meaning  clear.  She  was  not  deaf,  but  it  did 
not  help  matters,  not  even  when  I  pointed  my 
finger  in  the  direction  of  "somewhere."  There  was 
a  puzzled  look  on  her  face  as  I  repeated,  "I  want  to 
go  to — 

"Say  'hell'  and  let  it  go  at  that,"  shouted  a  voice 
behind  me. 

It  was  an  American  who  spoke  and  in  the  next 
breath  he  said  "from  Indiana."  I  tried  to  respond 
in  Italian.     While  not  in  keeping  with  the  Red 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  125 

Cross  ritual,  his  greeting  was  welcome.  Passing 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs  in  company  with  him,  we 
chanced  upon  a  charmed  cluster  of  trees  in  an  old 
courtyard.  The  birds  were  singing  their  carols 
as  if  in  defiance  to  the  Austrian  bombs.  A  crowd 
of  people  had  gathered  just  to  see  and  hear  the 
birds  in  the  trees. 

At  the  Hotel  Mantin,  a  name  prominent  in  the 
history  of  Venice,  a  gondola  bus  was  ready  to  take 
passengers  to  the  railway  station.  Descending 
the  steps  to  the  boat,  I  felt  the  carpet  of  moss  under 
foot,  gathered  by  the  tides  of  the  centuries.  At 
low  ebb  the  green  is  a  bright  emerald  hue,  forming 
a  fresh  coloring  in  the  grayness  of  the  scene.  My 
eyes  caught  glimpses  of  old  rusty  hinges  and  crude 
locks  on  the  doors,  telling  of  the  days  when  over 
these  thresholds  teemed  commerce  from  the  seven 
seas.  The  ancient  palaces  alone  radiated  the  story 
of  the  once  glorious  days  of  the  "Mistress  of  the 
Adriatic." 

Germans  have  cast  envious  eyes  on  Venice, 
something  like  an  ancient  heritage  to  be  regained. 
Venitia  was  once  occupied,  pillaged  and  sacked  by 
Attila,  king  of  the  Huns.  The  descendants  of  Attila 
are  now  battling  at  the  Piave.  Venice  was  built 
by  the  survivors  of  the  Hun  invasion  on  a  marshy 
island  surrounded  by  lagoons,  to  resist  invasion. 


126  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

It  was  sunrise  when  I  came  away.  Yonder  in 
the  harbor  were  the  Italian  destroyers  and  new 
electric  sea  tanks  preparing  for  another  chase  of 
the  Austrian  fleet.  My  boat  sailed  away.  Venice 
faded  on  the  skyline. 

During  the  sail  we  passed  numerous  craft, 
carmen-hued,  their  sails  waving  like  emblems  of 
victory.  Sailors  were  singing  hopeful  songs, 
and  when  we  neared  the  landing  at  St.  Gullien, 
our  red  Fiat  motor  car  was  ready  for  the  dash  to 
Padua. 


XII 


ALONG  THE  ITALIAN  FRONT 


THE  proverbial  sunny  skies  of  Italy  were 
obscured  by  a  drizzling  rain  as  I  swept 
along  by  the  canal  in  the  red  motor  car 
which  Major  Fabri  of  the  Red  Cross  had  provided. 
The  air  was  cold  and  nipping.  The  lack  of  horses 
in  Italy  was  in  evidence  all  along  the  canal,  for 
men  were  pulling  the  barges  laden  with  war  sup- 
plies. Arriving  at  Padua,  the  seat  of  the  ancient 
Padua  University,  and  the  center  of  Venetian 
culture,  we  came  to  the  headquarters  of  the 
Italian  Army. 

It  was  here  I  met  Mr.  Charles  Thompson  of  the 
Associated  Press.  He  is  a  good  type  of  the  cru- 
sader. His  descriptions  of  the  war  in  Italy  are 
notable  contributions.  He  has  one  son  in  the 
Army  and  another  in  the  Navy.  Another  corre- 
spondent who  is  sending  out  reports  widely  read 
in  America,  and  who  knows  his  Italy  through  and 
through,  is  Paul  Morrow. 

(127) 


128  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

These  men  are  on  the  spot  and  are  keen  observers 
of  events. 

At  Ristor's  restaurant  I  listened  to  an  illum- 
inating narration  by  these  men  of  the  debacle  at 
Caporetto,  where  the  blood  and  sacrifice  of  two 
years  was  wiped  out  in  a  few  hours.  These  men 
were  thoroughly  informed  as  to  every  detail 
involved  in  the  reverse.  Though  the  worst  blow 
in  the  history  of  the  country,  yet  it  had  by  some 
enchantment  United  the  whole  Italian  people. 
They  prophesied  victory  yet  to  come. 

At  the  luncheon  were  served  delicacies  like 
calves'  brains,  pigs'  feet,  and  broiled  vertebrae 
(I  am  not  strong  on  stewed  spinal  cord,  but  I 
know  what  it  is).  In  the  wall  of  the  dining  room 
was  a  destination  dent  made  by  one  of  Napoleon's 
guns. 

Then  we  started  on  our  way  to  Abano,  where 
the  headquarters  of  the  Commando  Supremo 
are  located.  My  sole  companion  was  a  captain 
delegated  by  headquarters.  As  we  passed  through 
the  plains,  on  either  side  of  the  road  were  myriad 
stumps  of  mulberry  trees,  out  of  which  the  new 
shoots  were  springing.  It  is  here  that  fagot 
gatherers  come  every  year  to  cut  off  the  new 
growth,  using  the  shoots  for  fuel.  Even  these 
tiny  twigs  are  of  priceless  value  in  a  land  where 


XITE,  ITALIAN  MINISTER  OF  FINANCE 


CONVEYING  SUPPLIES  IN  BESIEGED  VENICE 


A  LUNCHEON  IN  PARIS  GIVEN  TO  AMBASSADOR  SHARPE 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  129 

wood  is  almost  reverenced.  In  the  distance  loomed 
the  great  mountains. 

Our  "red  devil"  motor  car  was  driven  with 
Detroit  speed  over  roads,  on  either  side  of  which 
were  fields  dotted  with  reserve  line  trenches, 
barbed -wire,  and  machine-gun  emplacements. 
Now  and  then  we  edged  past  long  lines  of  troops 
coming  from  and  going  to  the  front.  Sentinel 
after  sentinel  stopped  us  to  see  that  magic  paper. 

As  we  came  to  the  headquarters  of  General 
Diaz  we  found  ourselves  in  front  of  an  old  hotel, 
which,  before  the  war,  was  a  sulphur  spring 
resort.  I  can  smell  the  water  yet.  His  quarters 
were  on  the  second  floor.  As  I  entered,  General 
Diaz,  sitting  at  a  flat-topped  desk,  arose.  The 
Captain  who  acted  as  my  escort  snapped  his  heels 
and  saluted,  at  the  same  time  presenting  me. 
The  Commander  immediately  extended  his  hand 
in  the  warmest  sort  of  greeting.  His  cordiality 
and  easy  manner  swept  away  every  vestige  of 
formality.  On  his  desk  every  article  was  arranged 
with  methodical  precision.  General  Diaz  looked 
the  Commando  Supremo.  He  wore  the  green 
khaki  of  the  Italian  Army,  and  on  his  sleeve  were 
a  flock  of  stars  in  irregular  shape 

A  direct  descendant  of  the  lieutenant  of  Colum- 
bus who  made  the  voyage  of  discovery  with  him, 


130  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

General  Diaz  has  valorous  blood  in  his  veins. 
Under  fifty  he  is  in  his  very  prime.  His  rise  to 
the  head  of  the  army  has  been  spectacular.  It 
was  the  promotion  of  merit.  The  devotion  of 
his  soldiers  to  him  is  Garibaldic.  He  almost 
knows  them  by  name.  Few  commanders  mix  so 
easily  and  gracefully  with  their  men.  It  is  for  this 
reason  they  love  him. 

Not  alone  for  his  personal  qualities,  but  for  his 
supreme  genius  as  a  tactician,  does  he  command 
them.  The  genesis  of  success  shown  by  recent 
operations  was  in  his  brain. 

As  I  looked  upon  him  I  saw  a  man  of  medium 
stature  with  black  hair  pushed  back  pompadour. 
The  thick  mass  was  slightly  streaked  with  gray. 
His  face  was  bronzed  by  exposure  and  markedly 
wrinkled  for  so  young  a  man,  but  it  was  handsome. 
His  dark  eyes,  peculiarly  piercing,  glistened  with 
good  humor.  In  repose  his  features  are  far  from 
stern,  as  is  shown  in  current  photographs.  When 
his  lips  parted  he  looked  more  like  an  artist  than 
a  soldier.  He  comes  from  Naples,  and  could 
pass  for  a  Grand  Opera  star.  His  was  a  delightful 
blend  of  strength  and  tenderness.  And  the  moment 
he  spoke — his  voice  was  as  sweet  and  mellow  as  a 
silver  bell — I  was  won  completely  to  him. 

I  extended  greetings,  to  which  he  replied: 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  131 

"I  hope  your  visit  will  bring  Italy  closer  to  you. 
I  shall  welcome  the  day  when  I  see  American 
troops  in  Italy." 

"America  appreciates  the  great  number  of  your 
countrymen  who  come  to  its  shores,"  I  began  rather 
boldly. 

"And  we  appreciate  them  more  when  they  come 
back,"  he  added  quickly.  "We  hope  the  Ameri- 
cans will  be  as  much  better  for  being  in  Italy,  as 
Italians  are  for  having  been  in  America." 

When  I  spoke  of  the  refugee  children,  his 
liquid  eyes  softened,  and  rising  and  going  to  a 
table,  he  took  up  a  book  containing  pictures, 
showing  children  in  school  rooms,  and  how  Italy 
is  caring  for  the  refugees.  He  presented  the  book 
to  me,  saying: 

"Doesn't  that  look  like  America?" 

All  our  conversation  was  carried  on  through  an 
interpreter.  The  General  frequently  supplemented 
question  and  answer  by  his  own  comments, 
and  we  just  kept  on  talking  with  our  hands — for- 
getting the  interpreter.  When  I  suggested  that  he 
should  come  to  America,  he  said:  "Yes,  after  the 
war.    Everything  comes  after  the  war." 

As  I  timidly  ventured  to  inquire,  "How  are 
things  going  at  the  front?"  he  raised  his  finger 
prophetically  and  said: 


132  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

"Sperta  et  verdi!"  ("Wait  and  see!") 

When  I  asked  him  for  his  photograph,  he  sent 
immediately  for  it.  In  autographing  it,  he  dashed 
it  off  so  quickly  and  well  that  his  every  movement 
indicated  a  man  of  literary  cultivation.  After 
speaking  of  America  and  Italy,  over  his  name  he 
wrote:  "  Unione  fedeli,  fede  vuna,  energie  agione." 
("Union  with  heart  and  soul,  and  one  for  energy 
and  action")  April  26,  1918." 

As  I  started  to  go  away  he  arose,  extended  his 
hand  and  surprised  me  by  saying  in  English, 
"Thank  you  very  much."  Not  to  be  outdone  in 
courtesy,  I  replied,  "Grazie"  ("Thank  you"). 

Then  we  returned  to  Padua  where  we  found 
Major  Fabri,  a  native  American,  now  in  the 
service  of  the  American  Red  Cross,  and  whose 
father  was  once  partner  in  the  J.  Pierpont  Morgan 
firm.  From  Padua  we  sent  our  luggage  on  to 
Verona,  to  make  room  in  the  automobile  in  which 
we  were  to  travel,  for  the  lira  (money)  which 
the  Major  was  to  distribute  to  the  mayors  and 
padres  in  every  small  community,  for  relief  among 
the  refugees.  Here  we  were  joined  by  a  father 
and  son.  The  father  was  a  captain  and  the  son 
a  lieutenant  in  the  Italian  Army.  The  soldier- 
family  had  been  separated  by  the  exigencies  of 
service  in  different  fields.     Long  shall  I  carry  in 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  133 

my  heart  the  picture  of  that  father  and  son  in  the 
joy  of  their  reunion.  During  the  entire  trip  their 
exchange  of  experiences  was  accompanied  by  the 
most  fervent  affection  for  each  other. 

It  was  biting  cold  and  the  Lieutenant  handed 
me  an  overcoat.  It  had  service  stars  on  the 
collar  and  sleeve.  When  the  Lieutenant  saw  the 
soldiers  along  the  way  saluting  me,  he  suggested 
that  it  would  be  better  to  take  the  stars  off,  which 
was  done.  Yet  for  a  while  I  passed  as  an  Italian 
army  officer. 

Major  Fabri  had  provided  rations  for  the 
journey.  Forward  again  flashed  the  red  "Fiat." 
The  chauffeur  was  a  dare-devil.  We  swept  past 
village  after  village,  their  campaniles  standing 
out  like  passing  milestones.  On  the  road  military 
activities  were  more  and  more  in  evidence.  At 
one  place  we  encountered  a  herd  of  cows — and 
they  acted  as  cows  always  do.  After  our  delay  we 
were  on  again,  and  did  not  pause  until  we  reached 
Thiene,  where  the  British  headquarters  are  located. 

We  were  in  the  plateau  of  the  Asiago.  In  the 
villages,  which  dotted  the  landscape,  not  a  civilian 
remained.  Every  piece  of  furniture  in  the  houses 
was  gone.  Here  where  domestic  tranquility  once 
reigned,  and  around  doorsteps  where  happy  chil- 
dren played,  arose  only  gaunt  and  irregular  walls, 


134  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

mutely  protesting  the  ruthless  scourge  which 
had  swept  over  it. 

Behind  and  above  this  wide  stretch  of  crumb- 
ling desolation,  rose  the  Julian  Alps,  their  white 
peaks  crowned  with  snow,  their  ravines  robed 
in  purple,  and  their  foothills  bathed  in  a  russet 
glow.  They  stood  there  in  eloquent  silence  de- 
claring that  a  people  whose  motives  were  as  pure 
as  the  sifted  snows,  whose  loyalty  was  as  glorious 
as  the  blue  garments  they  wore,  and  whose  sacrifice 
was  redder  than  their  deepest  tones,  would  some 
day  find  eternal  foundations,  and  be  lifted  high  in 
the  light  of  heaven. 

What  a  setting  for  the  operations  of  the  British 
and  French,  and  now  the  American  armies,  who 
have  come  to  stand  side  by  side  with  the  Italian 
in  stemming  the  red-death  stalking  unashamed 
through  the  passes! 

The  rest  of  the  way  to  the  mountains  lay  along 
roads  heavily  camouflaged.  Toward  the  enemy 
a  green  foliage  matting  stretched  mile  after  mile, 
which,  while  not  preventing  the  enemy  from 
knowing  the  road's  location,  served  to  obscure  the 
observation  of  troops  passing  to  and  fro,  and 
eliminated  sniping. 

Reaching  the  Tyrolean  Alps,  we  had  a  view 
of  the  little  narrow  gauge  road  from  a  different 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  135 

angle  than  that  of  the  tourist.  In  our  motor  car 
we  were  actually  among  the  scenes  which  the 
railroad  only  commands  at  a  distance.  More 
villages  were  encountered,  the  dwellings  in  each 
fearfully  demolished.  When  I  remarked  upon 
the  desolation,   my  Lieutenant  companion   said: 

"Wait  until  you  get  to  my  town." 

And  when  we  finally  reached  it,  what  terrible 
destruction  had  been  wrought.  Not  a  building 
escaped.  The  Austrians  were  good  gunners,  having 
picked  out  the  houses  and  potted  them,  one  by 
one.  Only  a  few  straggling  soldiers  furnished  any 
semblance  of  life. 

Some  incidents  in  any  journey  stand  out  with 
greater  vividness  than  others.  For  me  now  is 
to  describe  in  broken  words  the  climacteric 
experience  of  my  life. 

No  array  of  sentences  can  picture  the  journey 
from  the  plans  of  Piave  to  Mount  Grappa.  The 
distance  is  no  less  than  a  hundred  miles,  and  it 
was  made  in  a  single  day. 

We  stopped  at  the  village  of  Piovene,  and  my 
Lieutenant  companion  said,  "Are  you  game?" 
Not  knowing  all  it  meant,  I  assented.  I  had  not 
come  over  seas  and  continents  to  count  hazards. 

I  soon  learned  that  he  referred  to  the  Telliferico,  a 
little  aerial  railroad  which  runs  up  six  thousand 


136  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

feet  to  the  highest  peak.  The  car  or  wire  basket 
which  furnishes  accommodation  for  two  persons 
is  attached  to  an  overhead  cable — one  car  goes  up, 
and  the  other  comes  down,  both  gravity  and 
power  being  used.  In  the  car  one  must  lie  down. 
It  is  in  these  little  baskets  the  guns  and  munitions 
are  carried  up,  and  the  wounded  are  brought  down. 

For  fully  thirty  minutes  we  lay  in  the  car  going 
up  the  Telliferico  six  thousand  feet.  No  sounds, 
save  the  clicking  ratchet  of  the  cable  wheels  over- 
head, and  our  voices,  were  heard,  and  our  voices 
seldom  disturbed  the  silence,  for  with  peak  after 
peak  passing  in  view,  deep  caverns  yawning,  and 
stretching  Alpine  vistas  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  it  was  no  time  for  words.  We  were  holding 
our  breath.  Far  below  and  underneath  curved  in 
and  out  between  the  ranges  the  Astico  River,  its 
bluest  of  blue  waters,  flecked  by  white  foam, 
showing  the  tumult  of  its  soul. 

Reaching  the  top,  we  left  the  Telliferico  and 
landed  knee-deep  in  mud. 

On  the  trails  above  mules  were  footing  their  way 
slowly  upwards,  bearing  their  precious  burden 
of  supplies.  Along  the  trail  wherever  the  curve 
permitted,  gun  emplacements  had  been  cut  in  the 
solid  mountains. 

At  the  barracks  we  were  received  by  the  officer 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  137 

in  charge  who  invited  us  in  for  coffee.  It  is  the 
custom  farther  up  to  stop  at  all  the  barracks  and 
take  coffee  with  the  officers. 

And  from  here  up  these  barracks  multiply  fast. 
By  the  time  I  had  finally  reached  the  top  I  was 
full  up,  so  it  seemed,  of  coffee.  I  never  drank 
so  much  coffee  before  and  I  never  expect  to 
again.  But  I  was  grateful  that  Nature  provided 
me  liberally  with  the  capacity  of  being  sociable. 

From  Telliferico  station  to  the  trenches  on 
Mount  Verena  is  one  thousand  feet,  and  the  only 
way  to  reach  the  latter  is  up  a  road  which  winds 
round  and  round  like  the  stair  treads  in  the  Wash- 
ington monument.  Every  step  of  the  way  must 
be  on  foot,  and  with  my  normal  weight  and  the 
additional  burden  of  coffee,  I  am  not  surprised 
that  my  Lieutenant  companion  frequently  asked: 

"Do  you  think  you  can  make  it?"  or  "How's 
your  heart?" 

I  replied,  "My  heart  is  all  right,  but  my  stomach 
is  in  the  way." 

Every  step  now  was  through  snow  and  slush  and 
mud.  My  feet  were  soaked,  my  clothing  smeared, 
and  my  gloves  looked  as  if  I  had  been  in  a  sewer 
main.  Every  now  and  then  we  stopped  for  a 
breathing  spell.  At  one  of  these  was  a  scene  that 
haunts  me  even  now. 


138  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

There  on  a  comparatively  flat  ledge  were  num- 
berless white  crosses.  It  was  a  cemetery  of  the 
soldier-dead.  Here  those  who  had  fallen  by  their 
guns  in  the  first  great  push,  had  been  laid  to  rest, 
close  up  to  heaven's  blue  walls  where  they  died, 
and  from  which  their  spirits  easily  mounted  to  the 
peace  plains  of  the  Eternal  City.  There  slept  their 
sacred  dust,  under  the  white  blanket  of  the  snow, 
with  not  so  much  as  a  large-eyed  daisy  to  look 
down  tearfully  upon  them.  Yet  they  climbed 
the  altar  stairs  to  glory,  and  their  memory  will 
remain  with  the  enduring  Alps. 

At  another  stop  my  companion  pointed  to  a 
distant  peak,  saying,  "I  spent  six  months  in  the 
little  barracks  at  that  point  in  an  observation 
post,  and  during  that  time  never  once  left  it." 

It  was  in  that  post,  during  the  early  stages  of  the 
war,  that  an  Italian  commander,  Austrian  born, 
was  captured  by  the  enemy  and  shot. 

On  we  climbed.  It  would  rain,  then  sleet,  then 
snow,  the  ascent  becoming  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult. But  the  stops  were  many,  and  here  as  at 
the  other  barracks  the  officer  took  us  in,  and  gave 
us  more  coffee. 

Finally  we  reached  the  headquarters  of  the 
Commander.  He  proved  to  be  Major  Effisio 
Toulu,  who  wore  a  monocle.    The  barracks  were 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  139 

built  into  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  contained 
quite  a  few  rooms,  many  of  them  papered  with 
actresses'  pictures  and  cartoons.  They  were  all 
lighted  by  electricity  and  had  telephones.  Every 
splinter  of  that  lumber  and  the  materials  which 
entered  into  the  construction  of  the  building 
were  carried  up  that  last  one  thousand  feet  by 
mules. 

The  Major  was  a  jovial  fellow!  Off-hand  he 
said  at  once: 

"We're  keeping  them  busy  up  here."  When 
asked  if  there  was  much  shooting,  he  said: 

"We  shoot  so  many  shells  every  day,  just  to  let 
them  know  we  are  here." 

When  we  inquired  about  the  time  of  shooting 
he  said:     "The  exercises  begin  soon." 

"Can  I  stay?"  I  hesitatingly  inquired.  "Sure 
Mike,"  he  cried,  and  laughed  hilariously.  Evi- 
dently it  was  the  only  bit  of  the  American  tongue 
he  had  picked  up.  I  was  willing  to  change  my 
name  to  see  the  show. 

It  was  a  dramatic  moment  when,  lower  down,  I 
had  looked  through  an  opening  in  the  peaks  and 
saw  for  the  first  time  the  Austrian  frontier.  But 
the  upshot  of  all  my  experiences  was  now  to  come. 

He  conducted  us  to  a  narrow  walk  on  the  side  of 
a  rugged  peak. 


140  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

"Bend  low,"  he  cautioned,  "If  they  see,  they 
will  pepper."  So  skulking  like  Indians,  we  crept 
along  until  we  entered  a  long  winding  tunnel. 
There  were  short  lateral  tunnels  leading  out  of 
the  main  one,  where  stood  concealed  mortars  and 
howitzers  with  their  noses  pointed  in  the  air. 

I  said  to  the  Major,  "Is  there  any  danger  here?" 

"Not  unless  they  blow  the  top  of  the  mountain 
off,"  he  sniffed. 

We  entered  another  barracks  and  here  we  had 
more  coffee.  Then  on  through  a  tunnel  to  a  terrace, 
which  led  to  the  tip-top  peak,  we  climbed  a  ladder, 
perhaps  a  hundred  feet.  Another  winding  tunnel, 
and  through  a  tiny  peek  hole  in  the  solid  rock, 
was  an  Austrian  camp,  not  over  fifty  yards  away, 
the  smoke  of  the  fire  curling  leisurely  upward, 
to  dissipate  in  the  thin  air,  or  be  lost  amid  the 
snows.     The  enemy  was  there. 

The  Major  said  enthusiastically: 

"Now  we'll  see  the  fireworks."  Ordering  my 
Lieutenant  companion  to  fire,  the  latter  phoned 
to  his  own  battery  stationed  below. 

In  a  twinkling  of  an  eye,  a  ribbon  of  fire  shot 
past  the  peek  hole.  Smoke  puffed  on  the  opposite 
peak,  and  through  the  glasses  camp  utensils  could 
be  seen  flying  into  the  air.  We  saw  all  this  before 
we  heard  the  report. 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  141 

"It's  a  hit,"  the  Major  shouted.  Then  turning 
to  the  Lieutenant  he  praised  him  on  the  work  of 
his  battery. 

I  had  seen  more  than  brain  could  comprehend. 
Here  at  the  very  peak  of  the  Alps,  the  eye  of 
Italy  is  on  Austria. 

Descending  the  ladder,  we  entered  once  more 
the  barracks,  where  camp  dogs  added  a  little 
domesticity  to  the  solitary  loneliness. 

Passing  down  one  of  the  tunnels,  I  heard  a 
shout.  I  did  not  know  the  language,  but  I  recog- 
nized the  tone,  and  "ducked,"  lying  flat  down, 
close  to  the  eternal  walls.  An  Austrian  "skodda" 
was  trying  to  become  sociable. 

Now,  for  the  descent  of  the  Telliferico!  I  lay 
face  up.  The  incline  was  so  steep  the  car  was 
almost  upright — at  such  an  angle  that  the  whole 
scene  spread  out  before  me.  The  great  peaks  under- 
neath looked  like  hillocks.  Great  mountain  val- 
leys from  which  the  snow  has  never  departed  since 
the  morning  stars  sang  together  at  creation,  were 
bathed  in  almost  every  blue  and  purple  tone. 
Peaks  swept  on  until  in  the  distance  they  dis- 
solved in  the  gray  mist,  as  dimunitive  and  pointed 
as  a  collection  of  army  tents. 

When  we  had  descended  and  reached  the  point 
where  the  Lieutenant's  battery  was  located,  the 


142  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

very  same  which  had  so  accurately  saluted  the 
enemy,  I  noticed  a  tally  board  where  a  record  of 
every  shot,  and  results  as  far  as  they  are  known, 
is  kept  day  by  day. 

Turning  to  the  barracks  for  dinner,  we  were  just 
finishing  our  soup,  when  a  shell  smashed  over  the 
battery.    The  Austrians  had  the  range  now. 
The  Lieutenant  coolly  said : 
"Guess  we  will  have  to  move  again." 
The  casualties  numbered  four  mules  which  were 
grazing  about  in  the  little  space. 

Here  I  was  sent  to  bed,  until  my  clothing  and 
shoes  were  dry  enough  to  be  wearable.  Getting 
out  of  bed,  we  started  on  the  one-hundred-mile 
ride  to  Verona,  then  through  Vincenza.  It  was 
the  wildest  ride  I  ever  experienced.  The  rain  came 
pouring  down.  We  were  soon  soaked  to  the  skin. 
In  the  darkness,  for  we  had  no  headlights,  we 
hardly  knew  where  we  were  going.  Not  until  we 
arrived  at  Verona  at  one  a.m.,  did  I  have  a  feeling 
of  safety. 

In  the  darkness  we  toured  within  the  historic 
walls  of  the  city  for  nearly  an  hour  trying  to  locate 
the  leading  hotel,  and  when  we  finally  did,  and 
sought  for  admission,  the  porter  shook  his  head, 
until  he  learned  that  we  were  the  two  guests  whose 
luggage  had  preceded  us.    Rooms  were  provided, 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  143 

but  nothing  else.    Not  a  crumb  to  eat,  not  even  a 
hot  swallow  to  warm  us.     Major  Fabri  said: 

"We're  due  for  pneumonia  tomorrow."  But 
the  porter  hung  out  our  wearing  apparel  under 
the  gabled  roof  to  dry,  and  Sunday  morning  we 
woke  up  to  find  our  clothes  cleaned,  brushed  and 
pressed,  and  sauntered  forth  for  all  the  world 
feeling  like  "two  gentlemen  of  Verona.' * 


XIII 


WITH  THE  ROLLING  CANTEEN  IN  ITALY 


IT  was  on  the  plateau  of  the  Asiago,  where  the 
British  troops  were  stationed,  that  I  had  my 
first  glimpse  of  the  American  Rolling  Canteen. 
Leaving  Vincenza  in  the  early  morning,  our  way 
was  through  many  a  village  levelled  by  Austrian 
guns.  In  a  cloud  of  dust  sent  up  by  the  Canteen, 
we  rode  on  through  the  day,  until  in  the  evening 
we  came  to  more  bombarded  towns,  and  drew  up 
under  the  ruins  of  a  campanile — nearly  every 
town  having  one — the  architecture  reflecting 
Venetian  influence  of  earlier  days. 

Under  the  crumbled  walls  of  a  house  the  Red 
Cross  kitchen  was  located.  It  somewhat  resem- 
bles a  lunch  wagon,  and  was  no  sooner  in  place 
than  soldiers  were  flocking  about  it  like  bees 
around  honey.  In  the  early  evening,  with  cool 
gray  mists  curling  about,  it  was  a  welcome  heat 
unit.  The  village  was  deserted,  everything  was 
damp    and    dismal,  not    another   fire    for    miles 

(144) 


ANDRE  CITROEN,  FRANCE'S  FOREMOST  MUNITION 

MANUFACTURER 

At  left,  in  conversation  with  General  Pershing  and 
a  French  officer 

11 


LE  MARECHAL  JOFFRE 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  145 

around.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  men  whether 
eating  or  drinking,  warming  their  hands,  or  sip- 
ping the  steaming  soup,  were  filled  with  good 
cheer? 

Most  soldiers  are,  seemingly,  always  hungry, 
and  anything  differing  from  the  regular  army 
rations  appeals  to  them.  The  Rolling  Canteen 
supplies  soup,  coffee,  and  cigarettes — strange  com- 
bination— but  war  has  shown  these  odd  associates 
to  be  the  epicurean  delight  of  soldiers.  Especially 
do  they  relish  a  steaming  cup  of  coffee  which  they 
will  drink  every  two  or  three  hours. 

To  see  a  group  around  one  of  these  kitchens  was 
to  be  reminded  of  a  throng  of  chattering  Italians 
often  seen  in  railroad  construction  camps  in  the 
United  States.  There  was  little  difference  in  the 
uniform  of  these  men,  except  that  some  had 
jaunty  caps,  while  others  wore  Alpine  hats  adorned 
with  a  feather.  Coffee  always  started  the  flow 
of  jocularity,  and  any  attention  by  the  workers 
brought  from  the  soldiers  an  enthusiastic  "Grazie." 
(Thank  you.) 

One  big  fellow,  a  giant  among  his  comrades, 
had  the  distinction  of  having  been  in  America,  and 
was  the  cynosure  of  all  as  he  came  forward  to 
speak  to  the  Americano.  He  saluted  as  he  glimpsed 
the  tiny  American  flag  in  my  buttonhole,  and  told 


146  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

me  in  Italio-English  that  he  once  was  in  business 
on  Broadway,  New  York  City. 

"What  was  your  line,"  I  queried. 

"Put  upa  da  foot."  And  as  if  to  prove  his 
assertion  grasped  a  canteen  dishcloth  and  pro- 
ceeded to  demonstrate  by  polishing  up  my  "Regal 
russet  beauties."  The  snap  of  the  cloth,  a  trick 
unknown  in  Italy,  indicated  him  to  have  been  a 
professional  shoe-shiner  in  our  great  cosmopolitan 
city.  As  they  grouped  themselves  on  crags  by 
the  roadside,  or  amid  barbed  wire  entanglements, 
the  onlooking  soldiers  looked  like  a  male  chorus 
in  "II  Trovatore." 

"When  I  was  in  New  York  I  subscriba  to  da 
Americano  Red  Cross,"  he  proudly  told  me. 
"Now  we  geta  da  goods,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
big  Rolling  Canteen. 

These  Rolling  Canteens  lumber  along  the  camou- 
flaged roads  like  circus  wagons.  As  a  war  vehicle, 
they  have  the  right  of  way,  and  we  often  pulled 
into  the  ditch  to  let  them  pass,  and  willingly  so, 
for  they  were  going  forward  with  relief  and  cheer 
to  the  soldiers  returning  from  the  front. 

The  work  of  operating  the  Rolling  Canteen  is 
as  hazardous  as  any  work  of  the  Red  Cross. 
Since  my  return  I  have  received  word  of  the  death 
of  Lieutenant  Edward  McKay,  who  was  in  charge 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  147 

of  Canteen  No.  1  in  Italy.  I  am  not  surprised,  for 
the  workers  must  travel  dangerous  roads  just 
back  of  the  front  line,  and  are  exposed  to  shell 
fire  the  same  as  soldiers.  No  man  could  die  more 
truly  in  the  line  of  duty  than  Lieutenant  McKay. 
I  found  him  stationed  in  one  of  the  most  hazardous 
passes  in  the  mountains  of  the  Western  Italian 
front,  the  place  where  the  last  Austrian  drive 
began.  He  was  the  only  American  in  that  section 
when  I  was  there.  His  presence  in  such  a  place 
brought  a  salute  from  me,  for  the  Rolling  Canteen 
was  a  tangible  evidence  of  the  help  of  "big  brothers" 
from  across  the  sea.  Imagine  for  yourself  the 
picture  as  I  saw  it  only  a  few  weeks  before  the 
drive  in  which  the  brilliant  young  lieutenant  lost 
his  life!  Above  the  kitchen  on  three  sides  are 
towering  mountains.  The  pass  is  so  narrow  that 
there  is  room  only  for  a  built-in  road,  a  few  feet 
above  a  narrow  dry  stream.  Great  boulders  from 
the  cliffs  are  dislodged  by  shell  fire  and  come 
rolling  down  the  canyon.  No  water  is  in  the 
ravine  now,  but  when  the  snows  melt  or  heavy 
rain  falls,  the  dry  bed  of  the  stream  may  become 
a  flume,  through  which  a  flood  will  rush  with  all 
the  fury  of  a  mountain  freshet. 

The  limit  to  which  one  may  go  is  the  head  of 
the  pass,  for  the  enemy  is  just  beyond,  and  he  is 


148  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

on  high,  too.  Far  above  the  pass  and  blocking 
it  at  the  farther  end,  is  a  mountain  of  granite. 
On  that  peak  are  the  Austrians.  Their  guns 
command  the  defile.  The  enemy  is  so  near  that 
one  feels  the  danger  of  even  a  stone  being  thrown 
from  the  emplacements,  yet  that  peak  is  a  mile 
in  the  air. 

Some  day  the  desperate  Austrians  will  try  to 
come  through  that  pass.  Indeed,  they  have 
already  tried  it,  and  have  swarmed  a  thousand 
strong  to  the  very  spot  where  Rolling  Canteen 
No.  1  stands,  only  to  be  beaten  back  by  the 
Italians. 

Once  or  twice  a  day,  and  nearly  every  night, 
Austrian  gunners  send  shells  crashing  down  into 
that  shut-in  place.  The  big  175's  and  145's,  to- 
gether with  the  smaller  members  of  the  destruc- 
tion family,  send  shots  against  the  rocks  and 
scatter  shrapnel  in  all  directions.  The  bomb- 
proof shelters  must  be  sought,  for  nothing  can 
live  in  the  pass  when  the  battery  opens.  Of 
course,  men  with  nerves  steeled  become  accus- 
tomed to  danger,  and  as  soon  as  there  is  a  lull  in 
the  firing,  the  pass  is  inhabited  again,  the  men 
coming  from  holes  in  the  mountain  sides  to 
wink  at  the  Austrian  gunners  on  high  and  drink 
non-chalantly  of  the  Red  Cross  coffee. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  149 

Now  and  then  a  bit  of  humor  is  added  to  the 
grim  business.  Sometimes  the  big  shells  fail  to 
explode.  There  is  one  175  fully  charged  standing 
on  its  base  at  the  place  where  it  landed,  about 
twenty  yards  from  the  Rolling  Canteen.  It  is 
fenced  about  with  barbed  wire  and  a  rudely 
stencilled  sign  tacked  to  a  scantling  reads : 


PERICOLOSO 


"Perilous?"  I  should  say  so.  The  slightest 
jar  might  loose  the  forces  inside  the  unexploded 
missile  and  scatter  destruction  over  a  radius  several 
times  twenty  yards.  Yet  the  men  toy  with  it, 
dressing  it  up  occasionally,  putting  a  helmet  and 
gas  mask  over  its  pointed  nose.    Perilous  pastime! 

One  shell  which  failed  to  explode  afterwards 
served  a  useful  purpose.  The  men  of  Canteen 
No.  1  recovered  it  and  uncapping  it  drew  its 
charge.  They  needed  a  coffee  grinder  just  then 
very  badly  and  the  empty  shell,  weighing  some 
sixty  pounds,  was  converted  into  a  roller  to  crush 
the  coffee  berries  until  a  grinder  could  be  secured 
from  headquarters. 

Troops  which  have  been  on  duty  in  the  pass 
or  mountain-sides  come  to  the  Canteen  by  the 


150  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

hundreds.  Sometimes  hot  and  hungry,  at  other 
times  cold  and  hungry,  but  always  hungry  and 
always  tired.  It  is  here  their  appetites  are 
relieved  and  their  spirits  revived.  The  American 
khaki  uniform  always  gives  promise  of  this.  The 
Canteen  men  are  usually  waiting  for  them,  the 
coffee  is  hot  and  food  ever  ready  to  serve.  And 
there  is  American  jain— plenty  of  it — to  spread 
on  the  dry  bread  which  the  soldiers  carry  with 
them.  Twenty -five  hundred  have  been  served 
in  a  single  day  by  Canteen  No.  1.  Is  it  any 
wonder  they  go  on  their  way  down  the  moun- 
tain pass,  or  back  to  their  dugouts  with  lighter 
hearts  and  voicing  a  new  friendship  between 
Italy  and  America? 

Red  Cross  men  in  charge  of  a  Rolling  Canteen 
must  live  close  to  the  kitchen — it  may  mean  a 
lean-to  or  a  hut  or  a  tent.  Lieutenant  McKay 
lived  in  a  camouflaged  shack  built  against  a  cliff 
which  rose  many  meters  overhead.  When  the 
shells  were  flying  at  night,  he  took  refuge  in  a 
sandbagged  cave  on  the  nose  of  a  mountain 
where  it  was  difficult  to  get  a  word  either  to  or 
from  him. 

Out  of  the  mountain  pass  has  come  only  two 
requests,  one  for  the  coffee-grinder,  the  other  for 
a  phonograph  to  amuse  the  soldiers.     Now  and 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  151 

again  comes  a  command  from  the  colonel  of  the 
regiment  to  have  luncheon  on  the  mountain  top, 
for  the  officers  appreciate  the  work  that  is  being 
done  fully  as  much  as  the  soldiers  of  the  line. 
It  is  an  hour's  climb  to  the  top  of  the  mountain 
by  a  zigzag  footpath,  but  the  Red  Cross  man 
brushes  up  his  uniform,  mounts  a  mule  sent  by 
the  colonel  and  then  on  the  peak  there  is  much 
talk  of  the  relief  work  of  America. 

The  men  engaged  in  rolling  canteen  work  are 
specially  selected  for  the  business  in  hand,  and  they 
find  joy  in  the  opportunity  for  exceptional  service. 

From  place  to  place  these  canteens  go,  following 
the  needs  of  the  soldiers.  They  are  strongly 
built  affairs  of  iron  and  steel,  looking  like  big 
kitchen  ranges  on  wheels.  They  have  six  places 
each  for  spacious  set-in  kettles,  where  coffee 
and  occasionally  soup  may  be  kept  always  hot. 
Under  the  kettles  is  an  oven  burning  wood,  and 
once  the  metal  kettles  are  heated,  they  will 
remain  hot  for  sixteen  hours  at  a  time.  Whether 
the  soldiers  pass  in  the  night  or  the  day,  there  is 
always  something  steaming  hot  to  cheer  them 
at  these  busy  little  Red  Cross  hotels  on  wheels. 
They  are  taken  from  one  station  to  another 
by  the  "mother-car,"  a  big  lorry  which  serves 
as  a  storehouse  for  the  jam  and  the  coffee.     Just 


152  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

think  of  it — jam  and  coffee!  Was  there  ever  a 
time  in  the  experiences  of  human  life  when  jam 
and  coffee  mean  more  than  now  to  these  soldiers? 
The  regular  army  rations  pale  into  insignificance 
beside  the  jam — raspberry,  blackberry,  any  kind — 
just  so  long  as  it  is  jam.  For  soldiers  are  boys 
again,  great  big  boys,  and  the  little  things  of  life 
become  very  big  and  real,  especially  when  they 
bring  up  memories  of  home  and  mother.  Jam 
does  this  wonderfully.  It  rejuvenates,  exhilarates, 
and  makes  the  hardy  veterans  young  again. 

The  Rolling  Canteen  fills  not  only  a  needed  but 
unique  place  in  war  work.  It  not  only  ministers 
to  the  medicinal  needs  of  fighters,  but  it  furnishes  a 
little  by-play,  a  sort  of  home  pantry  with  a  "bite 
between  meals."  Wherever  it  goes,  it  tells  the 
men  at  the  front  that  those  at  home  are  thinking 
of  them  and  planning  for  their  comfort. 

Standing  there  I  thought,  what  would  mothers 
not  give  to  be  able  to  spread  a  piece  of  bread 
with  jam  for  her  boy.  I  am  sure  she  would  "spread 
it  thick." 


XIV 

ANDRE  CITROEN,  AN  INDUSTRIAL 
LEADER  OF  FRANCE 

AN  unexpected  circumstance  furnished  an 
opportunity  for  a  glimpse  into  industrial 
France.  After  speaking  at  a  luncheon  in 
Paris,  in  which  reference  was  made  to  America's 
industrial  achievements  in  the  work  of  the  war,  a 
young  man,  under  forty,  approached.  He  was 
rather  under  medium  height,  with  round  face  set 
off  with  a  stubby  mustache.  Through  his  glasses  I 
saw  a  pair  of  inquisitive  eyes.  He  looked  like  my 
friend,  L.  K.  Liggett. 

"You've  told  the  story  well,"  he  said.  "Would 
you  like  to  visit  an  industrial  plant  and  see  how 
we  are  doing  things  over  here?" 

There  was  a  pleasing  challenge  in  his  tone, 
combined  with  compelling  modesty.  I  no  sooner 
nodded  assent  than  we  were  whirling  down  the 
banks  of  the  Seine,  past  Eiffel  Tower,  to  Javal. 

The  name,  Andre  Citroen,  up  to  this  time, 
meant  very  little  to  me.    We  stopped  at  a  cluster 

(153) 


154  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

of  old  renovated  buildings,  now  transformed  into, 
as  I  soon  learned,  a  department  store.  On  the 
first  floor  of  the  building  was  a  meat  shop,  in  the 
center  of  which  was  a  glass  counter  so  constructed 
as  to  afford  a  clear  view  through  it  all.  The  most 
appetizing  array  of  meats  were  displayed  in  an 
attractive  way.  The  prices  were  plainly  marked, 
and  so  low  as  almost  to  cause  a  shock — a  pound 
of  ham  less  than  the  price  of  a  sandwich. 

In  other  rooms  of  this  building  were  to  be 
found  various  kinds  of  food  and  wearing  apparel. 
These  rooms  contained  every  article  from  sausages 
to  millinery. 

Across  the  way  was  a  shoe  shop.  Shoes  at 
figures  less  than  in  the  United  States.  And  these 
were  war  prices,  too!  Various  rooms  were  stored 
with  hardware  and  useful  household  utensils. 
The  main  thing  everywhere  was  the  price.  All 
customers  had  cards,  without  which  they  could 
not  buy. 

"Looking  after  the  necessities  first,"  was  his 
laconic  comment,  as  partial  explanation  as  to 
why  we  had  stopped  here  in  a  supposed  examina- 
tion of  an  industrial  plant. 

Every  customer  held  his  card  as  if  it  was  a 
government  bond.  Marked  on  it  was  the  amount 
of  each  purchase.     No  money  was  used.     At  the 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  155 

end  of  every  week  the  totals  were  added  and  the 
profits,  whatever  they  were,  reverted  directly  to 
the  purchasers.  The  customers  were  exclusively 
in  the  employ  of  Mr.  Citroen.  "Large  purchases 
and  short  accounts  is  the  story,"  he  said. 

With  very  little  comment  about  his  own  busi- 
ness, he  kept  up  a  rapid-fire  of  questions  about 
the  United  States. 

On  the  historic  road  to  Versailles  is  Javal.  In 
less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  we  were  there 
and  visiting  a  baby  nursery.  Here  were  forty  or 
fifty  nursing  babies  in  the  arms  of  mothers  who 
had  just  returned  from  work,  and  who  were 
chattering  merrily  about  their  babies,  like  children 
over  dolls,  each  comparing  the  various  points  of 
excellence  or  beauty  in  the  child.  After  a  half 
hour  these  mothers  would  go  back  to  the  munition 
factory.    They  make  these  visits  five  times  a  day. 

"En  a-t-il  se  jolts  yeux?"  said  one  young  mother 
to  me.  Mr.  Citroen  translated  her  words:  "Has 
he  not  pretty  eyes?"  I  nodded  assent.  "Mais  il  a 
les  cheveux  roux,"  jokingly  added  Mr.  Citroen, 
referring  to  the  auburn  hair.  "Ou  ne  trouverait 
pas  de  plus  beaux  cheveux  dans  toute  la  ville  de 
Venise,  Monsieur."  She  said  it  so  prettily  I 
asked  for  the  translot:  .  c  One  could  not  find 
prettier  hair  in  all  the  city  of  Venice,  Monsieui  " 


156  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

The  hospital  is  in  charge  of  expert  nurses  and  is 
provided  with  every  convenience.  The  wealthiest 
child  on  earth  could  not  be  better  cared  for.  The 
fatiguing  elements  which  every  mother  must  bear 
in  caring  for  a  child  are  here  entirely  eliminated 
— only  the  joys  remain.  Wakeful  nights  with  a 
fretful  child  are  unknown.  In  sickness  the  child 
has  the  best  that  science  and  the  medical  world  can 
provide.  "Just  the  age  of  my  little  one  at  home," 
he  said,  taking  up  a  wee  tot.  I  was  beginning 
to  know  Andre  Citroen. 

"We  can  save  fifty  thousand  babies  of  the 
working  women  of  France  in  a  year,"  he  added, 
"if  these  nurseries  multiply  fast  enough." 

Before  I  had  recovered  from  my  surprise  at 
these  two  visits,  I  was  in  the  largest  munition 
factory  in  France.  Acres  on  acres  of  floor  space 
were  covered  with  finished  shells.  The  rims  and 
tips  were  painted  brown  and  yellow.  Electric 
trucks,  driven  by  girls,  were  whizzing  by  like  fig- 
ures shown  by  a  crazy  camera  on  a  screen.  There 
seemed  to  be  as  much  of  a  rush  as  in  bringing  up 
ammunition  on  the  front  lines.  Yet  every  move- 
ment from  crude  iron  to  finished  product  was 
devoid  of  wasted  energy. 

Through  building  after  building,  past  miles 
and  miles  of  lathes,  foundries,  welding  machines, 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  157 

trip  hammers,  blazing  forges,  and  power  rooms; 
going  from  plant  to  plant,  covering  acres  and  acres 
of  ground,  I  became  so  confused  with  the  magnitude 
that  I  was  unable  to  comprehend  what  it  was  all 
about  until,  out  of  the  grimy  smoke  and  away  from 
the  noise  of  the  hammer  and  whirr  of  wheels,  I 
stood  once  more  in  the  open  air,  and  saw  electric 
trucks  in  a  continuous  stream  pouring  the  finished 
shells  into  countless  cars  to  be  taken  to  arsenal  and 
then  to  the  battle-field;  I  realized  then  the  tremen- 
dous scope  and  power  of  the  plant  I  had  been 
through,  and  the  meaning  of  the  name  Andre 
Citroen. 

After  this  we  took  our  places  at  a  table  in  a  great 
dining  hall.  "Still  looking  after  the  necessities, 
you  see,"  he  remarked.  We  were  seated  in  the 
same  chairs  as  had  been  occupied  by  General 
Pershing  and  other  Generals,  Ambassadors,  Presi- 
dents, Premiers,  and  distinguished  visitors  from 
all  the  Allied  countries.  Before  us  were  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  of  men  and  women  eating. 
They  come  here  in  shifts  and  manifested  all  the 
care-freedom  of  the  boulevard.  The  capacity  of 
the  hall  provides  for  three  thousand  of  employes. 

We  ate  the  same  food  as  the  munition  workers. 
I  think  it  was  Lloyd  George  who  said,  after  a  meal 
here:  "For  me  this  excels  Hotel  Crillon  at  its  best." 


158  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

At  Christmas  five  thousand  children  of  the 
employees  were  given  a  dinner,  each  one  pre- 
sented a  gift,  and  enjoyed  a  moving  picture  show. 
Not  a  child  was  accompanied  by  its  parent,  but 
not  one  was  lost.  Mrs.  Sharpe,  wife  of  the  Ameri- 
can ambassador,  was  one  of  the  patronesses  at 
this  occasion.  The  real  Andre  Citroen  was  begin- 
ning to  come  out. 

Born  in  Rue  Lafitte  at  the  Place  de  Pere,  he  is 
a  native  Parisian.  He  is  a  graduate  in  the  Engi- 
neering Department  of  the  Polytechnic  School,  and 
served  as  an  officer  in  the  Artillery.  For  thirteen 
years  he  was  a  manufacturer  of  motor  cars.  When 
the  war  broke  out,  he  was  at  the  front,  serving 
six  months  during  the  early  drive.  Here  he  saw 
a  pitiable  lack  of  ammunition.  He  went  to  the 
Department  of  War  and  obtained  from  the  govern- 
ment, after  much  difficulty,  the  financial  backing 
of  six  million  francs  on  condition  that  he  would 
erect  a  plant  in  six  months,  capable  of  turning  out 
five  thousand  shells  a  day.  His  former  partners 
refused  to  join  him  in  the  undertaking.  Undaunted, 
he  began  alone.  Hence  the  one  name  of  his  plant, 
Andre  Citroen. 

At  the  end  of  six  months,  he  was  turning  out  five 
thousand.  This  was  in  August,  1915.  By  July, 
1917,  he  was  turning  out  forty  thousand  a  day, 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  159 

and  now,  in  1918,  approximately  sixty  thousand, 
together  with  one  million  bullets.  In  the  pro- 
duction of  this  huge  output,  three  hundred  and 
fifty  tons  of  iron  and  one  hundred  tons  of  lead  are 
consumed  every  twenty-four  hours. 

The  personnel  of  his  plant  embraces  ten  thou- 
sand men  and  women.  Six  thousand  are  women, 
two  thousand  disabled  soldiers,  and  two  thousand 
men  over  and  under  military  age. 

Some  idea  of  the  welfare  of  his  employes  may  be 
shown  by  the  manner  in  which  the  teeth  are 
looked  after,  his  dental  force  operating  on  one 
hundred  a  day.  The  teeth  of  every  employe  are 
gone  over  every  month.  All  the  cooks,  waitresses 
and  chefs,  together  with  all  others  having  contact 
with  the  food,  have  their  nails  freshly  manicured 
every  day.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  births  among 
the  women  in  his  employ  have  been  recorded 
since  1915,  over  one  hundred  of  whom  have  been 
looked  after  by  his  nursery  staff. 

Mr.  Citroen  deals  only  with  three  men  in  the 
administration  of  the  plant.  First,  one  on  instal- 
lation; the  second,  on  fabrication;  the  third,  on 
health  and  welfare.  He  is  his  own  sales  manager 
and  purchasing  agent.  He  also  buys  the  coal 
for  all  the  factories  in  Paris.  The  industries  in 
Paris  alone  consume  about  half  the  coal  used  in 


160  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  entire  country.  Women  are  almost  exclusively 
employed  in  the  laboratories.  The  wages  of  his 
employes  have  doubled  since  he  first  started  his 
plant,  and  with  the  advantages  of  the  "company 
store"  they  save  money  and  invest  in  French 
bonds.  He  contends  that  every  one  of  the  twenty- 
four  provinces  of  France  should  buy  their  own 
necessities,  thus  reducing  the  cost  to  the  people. 

Leaving,  we  went  down  into  the  Metro  Tube 
(the  subway).  It  was  just  at  the  hour  of  changing 
shifts.  Trains  were  coming  and  going  in  a  bewild- 
ering stream,  part  bringing  employes,  and  part 
taking  them  home.  Looking  into  their  faces,  we 
could  not  discern  any  difference  in  expression  on 
those  coming  from,  to  those  going  to  work.  Both 
throngs  seemed  equally  bright,  vigorous  and 
contented. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  with  an  unspeakable  glad- 
ness in  his  eyes,  "this  is  the  test." 

As  I  looked  upon  him,  his  happiness  seemed 
complete  in  the  knowledge  that  beyond  all  in- 
dustrial achievements,  is  the  people — their  con- 
tentment, joy  of  service,  and  their  moral  and 
physical  well-being.  In  his  human  impulses  I  now 
felt  that  I  knew  Andre  Citroen. 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

SIR  DOUGLAS  HAIG,  COMMANDER  IN  CHIEF  OF  BRITISH  ARMY 


LLOYD  GEORGE,   PREMIER  OF  ENGLAND 


Copyright,  Underwood  &  Underwood 

GENERALISSIMO  FOCH 

Commander-in-Chief  of  Allied  Armies 


XV 


GENERALISSIMO  FOCH,  THE  STRATEGIST 


WHAT  I  expected  to  find  in  the  Generalissimo 
of  the  Allied  armies  was  just  the  reverse 
of  what  I  did  find.  Nothing  of  the  tower- 
ing greatness  which  belongs  to  supreme  leaders 
was  in  evidence.  His  personal  appearance  was 
disappointing.  Somewhat  undersized,  of  slight 
build — with  no  trace  of  the  athlete,  his  face  bronzed 
and  deeply  lined — there  was  nothing  in  his  physical 
appearance  that  was  imposing. 

Even  the  salute  between  him  and  General 
Pershing  was  one  of  brotherly  warmth  rather 
than  of  military  dignity.  When  through  the 
interpreter  I  told  him  that  I  had  spent  the  previous 
Sunday  with  Marshal  Joffre  and  from  that  inter- 
view had  tried  to  assimilate  proper  manners  with 
which  to  approach  one  of  his  rank,  he  simply 
smiled.  Even  the  sharp  clicking  of  my  heels  and 
my  quick  and  formal  salute  seemed  to  amuse  him 
more  than  anything  else. 

(161) 


162  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

But  I  soon  learned  that  his  simplicity  was  his 
greatness.  Living,  as  he  has  all  his  life,  apart  from 
society,  and  having  little  interest  in  it,  he  lacks 
all  the  graces  which  are  conspicuous  in  many  of 
his  subordinates. 

The  abstemious  life  which  he  acquired  in  youth 
and  has  rigidly  maintained  accounts  in  part  for 
his  slender  frame.  His  parents  lacked  the  means 
to  educate  their  sons  liberally  and  the  habits 
formed  in  the  Polytechnic  days  cling  to  him  even 
now.  He  is  essentially  an  intellectual — a  brain 
on  fire. 

His  head  is  peculiarly  formed.  Even  his  military 
red  cap  twined  with  golden  oak  leaves  sat  strangely 
on  his  head  as  he  stood  before  me.  Yet  above  his 
square  jaw  and  firm  mouth  were  eyes  which 
seemed  to  see  everything.  His  whole  bearing 
suggested  the  class-room  rather  than  the  battle- 
field. 

Yet  he  was  far  from  the  stoic.  There  was  a 
quickness  and  intensity  about  his  movements 
which  indicated  temperament  and  bore  out  the 
things  which  I  had  heard  about  him.  Among  his 
associates  he  is  regarded  as  highly  nervous.  His 
gestures  were  few  but  flashing.  His  movements 
were  unexpected,  surprising,  and  distinctively  his 
own. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  163 

I  had  not  been  with  him  long  before  I  could 
discern  that  he  was  a  man  apart  from  any  civilian 
standards — original,  surprising,  and  magnetic. 

Though  he  saw  service  in  1870,  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  has  been  entirely  out  of  the  public  view. 
Yet  during  those  forty  silent  years  he  has  not 
been  inactive,  nor  have  they  been  voiceless  years. 
He  often  says,  "Next  to  military  experience  is 
military  history."  From  the  ends  of  the  earth 
this  mystic  brain  has  been  drawing  inductions 
from  the  greatest  battles  of  history.  From  Caesar 
and  Napoleon  to  present-day  leaders  he  has 
assimilated  the  tactics  which  he  has  disseminated 
in  the  class  room  at  the  war  academy,  and  in  his 
published  works.  Once  every  ten  years  some 
volume  on  technical  strategy  has  appeared  from 
his  pen.    Artillery  has  been  one  of  his  specialties. 

During  this  war  much  has  been  said  about  the 
French  '75 's.  It  is  not  generally  known  that 
Foch  put  on  a  workingman's  blouse  and  went 
about  the  Creusot  Works  when  he  was  com- 
missioned to  make  an  official  report  on  the  gun 
which  has  made  life  intolerable  for  the  Huns. 

From  all  these  years  of  experiment  and  medi- 
tation he  has  come  forth  as  the  one  supreme 
military  brain  of  the  age.  Only  sixty-seven  years 
of  age  he  is  a  Zeus  in  knowledge  and  deserving  of 


164  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  tribute  paid  to  him  by  Joffre,  who  had  known 
him  from  early  childhood,  they  having  been  boys 
together:  "The  greatest  strategist  in  Europe  and 
the  humblest." 

It  is  because  he  knows  that  his  Staff  listens  to 
him.  It  is  significant  that  nearly  all  the  generals 
prominent  in  the  French  Army  today  were  once 
his  pupils.  His  brain  is  the  brain  of  the  French 
Army.  Berlin  has  recognized  it  and  he  is  ranked 
by  the  Militar-Wochenblatt,  official  organ  of  the 
Berlin  general  staff,  as  the  one  strategist  of  high 
capacity  in  the  ranks  of  the  Allies. 

At  the  battle  of  the  Marne  he  stepped  out  of 
the  quiet  atmosphere  of  the  class-room  to  be 
known  henceforth  as  a  Caesar  in  conception  and 
a  Napoleon  in  action,  to  illustrate  to  the  world 
his  one  great  axiom  "find  the  weak  spot  of  the 
enemy  and  surprise  him;  if  there  is  no  weak  spot 
make  one." 

In  that  memorable  battle  on  September  9th, 
he  believed  there  must  be  a  gap  between  the 
Prussian  Guard  and  the  Saxon  Army.  From  all 
the  country  round  he  brought  his  artillery,  and 
when  he  crushed  the  guard  on  the  Saint-Gond 
marshes,  a  new  field  genius  was  born. 

His  famous  message  to  Joffre  at  this  battle  will 
be  repeated  as  long  as  the  world  stands:     "My 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  165 

right  and  left  wings  are  turned  and  my  center  is 
crushed  in,  but  I  am  attacking  immediately." 

No  battle  in  history  could  have  shown  the 
man  better  than  this.  Contrary  to  all  military 
tactics — the  placing  of  superior  forces  opposite  a 
weak  point — he  attacked  with  a  broken  and 
shattered  army  forces  vastly  outnumbering  his 
own,  utterly  confounding  them. 

During  the  anxious  days  in  March  and  April, 
1918,  when  the  enemy  was  driving  deep  wedges 
into  his  front,  contrary  to  all  expectations,  and 
against  all  his  subscribed  theories  of  the  value  of 
attack,  he  said:   "Wait  a  little." 

He  must  know.  The  temperament  of  the  French 
people — he  knows.  His  whole  career  suggests  that 
he  is  the  one  man  to  know.  His  grip  on  his  gen- 
erals, calling  them  each  by  name,  carries  the  con- 
viction that  he  knows.  Void  of  all  isolation,  inci- 
dent to  his  command,  out  on  the  field  as  he  was 
at  the  Marne  when  wounded,  knowing  infantry- 
man and  artilleryman,  proves  he  must  know. 
Holding  the  confidence  of  the  whole  Allied 
world,  bearing  in  his  hands  the  destinies  of  all 
free  peoples,  he  must  know. 


XVI 

SIR  DOUGLAS  HAIG,  BRITISH 
COMMANDER 

I  NEVER  went  so  far  and  spent  so  little  time 
with  a  person  of  note  as  with  Sir  Douglas  Haig, 
especially  when  this  was  the  sole  purpose  of 
this  particular  journey.  But  there  was  a  reason. 
The  most  critical  days  of  the  war  were  on,  and  the 
Huns  were  taking  up  most  of  Sir  Douglas'  atten- 
tion. The  difficulty  of  reaching  his  headquarters 
was  augmented  by  bombardment.  Transpor- 
tation was  a  puzzle. 

My  visit  with  Sir  Douglas  consisted  prin- 
cipally of  a  salute.  He  was  just  starting  away 
with  his  orderlies.  As  he  sat  in  the  saddle,  every 
inch  a  horseman,  he  was  the  perfect  picture  of 
the  Hussar  of  years  ago — and  this  skill  probably 
was  partially  responsible  for  his  entry  into  the 
army.  When  at  Oxford  he  was  all  set  for  a 
literary?  career,  but  reverses  came  in  the  family 
and  hejwas  obliged  to  seek  other  fields.  It  was 
his  ability  as  a  rider  that  at  this  time  suggested 

(166) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  16T 

the  cavalry,  but  the  cavalry  was  not  then  in  high 
repute  with  the  military  authorities. 

It  was  not  until  Kitchener  began  his  great  expe- 
dition into  Sudan  that  Haig's  horsemanship  availed 
him  much.  Yet  through  that  long  and  exhaustive 
drive  in  the  desert  with  Kitchener  he  accom- 
plished something  few  have  ever  succeeded  in 
doing.  He  made  the  cold  iron  of  the  Earl  bend  to 
the  warmth  in  his  nature  and  to  a  recognition  of 
his  worth.  It  was  not  until  the  Boer  War  that  he 
came  fully  to  his  own.  It  was  his  cavalry  which 
turned  the  British  reverse  into  a  success. 

Sir  Douglas  has  always  been  a  strong  champion 
for  cavalry,  and  has  been  an  ardent  admirer  all 
his  life  of  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  the  cavalry  leader  of  the 
Confederacy,  whom  he  regarded  as  the  supreme 
cavalry  genius  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Even 
when  he  was  at  Aldershot  he  impressed  Stuart's 
career  upon  his  staff.  He  even  prophesied  that 
Berlin  would  rue  the  day  when  she  failed  to 
develop  this  arm  of  service. 

At  Cambrai,  after  Byng's  drive  had  begun  to 
slow  down,  it  was  the  British  cavalry  which  deliv- 
ered such  crushing  blows  and  vindicated  Sir 
Douglas'  belief  in  its  value. 

As  he  sat  there  on  his  horse  somebody  remarked : 
"Did  you  ever  see  a  more  graceful  rider?',    He  was 


168  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

about  the  last  word  in  a  carefully-groomed  soldier. 
His  hair  was  smoothed  down  even  to  the  last  stray 
lock,  his  face  fresh-shaven,  except,  of  course,  his 
military  mustache.  All  in  all,  he  looked  much 
younger  than  his  years  indicate. 

As  I  gazed  into  his  face  so  finely  chiseled,  I  did 
not  wonder  that  he  was  the  one  man  to  cause  a 
flutter  in  the  feminine  heart  and  to  be  enshrined 
there  as  the  ideal  soldier.  On  this  day  his  face  had 
a  very  serious  cast.  He  reminded  me  of  the  iron 
Kitchener  whom  I  had  seen  riding  in  the  Corona- 
tion parade.  A  sunny  Scotch  smile  overspread 
Haig's  handsome  features  as  he  rode  away. 

One  of  the  Scotch  soldiers  standing  about  pointed 
to  one  of  his  company  and  said: 

"That's  the  Chief's  chaplain.  Ye  ken  he's  vera 
religious." 

It  is  reported  that  Sir  Douglas'  chaplain  goes 
with  him  everywhere.  He  has  the  soul  of  a  Scot 
and  never  misses  a  morning  service  at  the  front. 
Inquiring  my  way  to  headquarters,  I  had  encoun- 
tered a  number  of  the  "Hieland"  boys,  but  they 
were  unaccompanied  by  the  squeaking  strains  of 
the  bagpipe. 

While  waiting  for  Sir  Douglas'  return,  I  had  an 
opportunity  to  glimpse  his  headquarters.  One 
article  is  always  indispensable  in  his  room,  and 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  169 

that  is  the  Bible.  Probably  it  was  the  very  same 
one  which  he  lost  in  the  Boer  campaign,  and  for 
which  he  mourned  until  it  was  found.  Sir  Douglas 
is  also  a  keen  student  of  metaphysical  and  dogmatic 
subjects,  but  it  may  be  questioned  whether  he 
finds  much  time  for  a  perusal  of  these  studies 
now. 

What  wonder  that  one  of  the  Scotties  standing 
near  should  say  of  him: 

"He's  a  bonny  chief." 

For  Sir  Douglas  bears  out  the  admiration  of  his 
men.  Of  stainless  character  and  brilliant  mind, 
he  would  have  been  the  one  general  to  delight 
Napoleon,  who  expressed  great  fondness  for  a 
general  whose  character  and  intellect  blended.  The 
little  Corsican  deemed  that  this  was  a  necessity  for 
the  highest  military  success. 

He  is  a  great  favorite  in  the  British  War  Office. 
His  fine  courtesy  and  deference  being  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  brusqueness  of  Kitchener.  It  is 
not  often  "that  manners  are  the  man"  in  so  full  a 
sense  as  in  Sir  Douglas  Haig.  But  he  is  a  fighter 
as  well.  His  dogged  determination  was  seen  during 
the  terrific  push  of  the  Huns  for  the  Channel 
ports,  and  in  their  efforts  to  separate  the  French 
from  the  British.  His  words,  "We  are  standing 
with  our  backs  against  the  wall"  will  long  live  as 


170  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

reflecting  not  only  the  spirit  of  this  dauntless 
leader,  but  of  the  whole  British  Empire  as  well. 

My  time  was  up,  and  Sir  Douglas  did  not  return 
as  expected,  for  the  drive  was  on.  I  had  had  a 
wave  of  his  hand  and  a  few  words  from  the  "Tom- 
mies" about  him.  The  British  soldier  is  proverbial 
for  what  he  does  not  say.    I  found  him  so. 

Yet  as  I  rode  away  toward  Amiens,  our  motor 
car  bumping  into  the  fresh  destruction  wrought 
by  the  Huns,  and  perhaps  over  the  freshest-turned 
sod  by  these  master  plowmen,  the  picture  of  Haig 
fastened  itself  on  my  mind.  It  was  a  trying  time 
for  the  British  Army,  and  Sir  Douglas  Haig  during 
that  tempest  drive  added  glory  to  the  valor  of 
British  arms.  Bravest  of  brave — the  men  of  Sir 
Douglas  are  astonished  if  complimented  upon 
mere  heroism. 

"We  only  do  our  duty,  sir,  and  Sir  Douglas 
expects  that,"  was  the  remark  of  an  English  ser- 
geant who  had  been  three  times  wounded  and 
was  keen  for  another  "big  show"  at  Ypres  with 
Sir  Douglas  in  command. 


XVII 

LLOYD  GEORGE— THE  LION  OF 
NO.  10  DOWNING  STREET 

THE  center  of  things  in  the  British  Empire 
is  No.  10  Downing  Street.  I  visited  it  twice. 
The  building  is  located  at  the  end  of  a  short 
street,  which  looks  like  a  blind  alley,  or  what  we 
would  call  in  America,  a  "place."  Nobody  gets 
any  farther  than  No.  10.  On  the  door  is  an  old- 
fashioned  knocker.  At  the  side  of  the  door  there 
are  three  bells — all  labeled — one  for  visitors,  one 
for  servants,  and  one  for  messengers,  so  I  knew 
which  one  to  ring. 

Once  inside,  the  visitor  is  impressed  with  the 
severe  plainness  of  the  place.  There  is  but  little 
furniture,  the  only  conspicuous  exception  being 
a  high-backed  chair,  such  as  might  grace  a  throne 
room.  All  around  the  frieze  are  heads  of  animals 
brought  from  different  parts  of  the  empire  and 
placed  there  by  Lord  Asquith's  son  when  the  father 
was  Premier.  Through  a  dark  hall,  hung  with 
pictures  of  former  ministers,  you  enter  the  Cabinet 

(171) 


172  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

room.  In  the  center  is  a  very  wide  table  covered 
with  green  cloth.  A  few  pictures  adorn  the  walls. 
Looking  out  of  the  window  is  a  garden. 

In  a  room  to  the  left  was  the  private  secretary, 
Mr.  Sutherland,  buried  in  a  mass  of  papers,  and 
looking  like  an  exchange  editor.  In  the  room  to 
the  right  was  another  private  secretary,  Mrs. 
Stevenson,  whose  services  have  extended  over  a 
wide  period.  Many  a  letter  supposed  to  be  signed 
by  a  man,  with  the  one  name,  "Stevenson,"  is  in 
a  woman's  handwriting.  She  is  an  encyclopedia 
for  names  and  incidents. 

It  was  in  the  center  room  that  we  met  the  great 
spokesman  of  the  British  Empire,  Lloyd  George. 
Advancing,  he  said:  "Here  is  where  the  dirty  work 
was  done,"  referring,  in  a  jocular  way,  to  the  acts 
of  a  hundred  years  ago.  In  personal  appearance, 
he  is  short,  thin  and  wiry,  yet  full-chested  and  of 
athletic  build.  One  could  imagine  that  in  action 
on  the  links  or  in  the  war  office  he  smites  like  a 
lightning  flash.  A  Rooseveltian  intensity  radiates 
from  his  gray  eyes.  His  forehead  is  full  and  high, 
from  which,  except  for  a  close-parting  on  the  left 
side,  his  iron  gray  hair  is  pushed  straight  back. 
Under  his  loosely  falling  mustache  it  is  easy  to 
discern  the  mouth  of  an  orator.  He  had  aged 
a  bit  since  I  saw  him  eight  years  ago,  yet  he  gave 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  173 

evidence  of  having  grown  mightily  in  physical  and 
mental  power. 

He  had  just  come  in  from  Walton  Heath,  where 
he  spends  Sundays,  resting  and  hammering  out 
the  dents  of  "trouble-corner." 

Lloyd  George  makes  it  clear  at  the  start  that 
he  does  not  wish  to  have  his  private  utterances 
quoted.  What  he  says  for  public  consumption  is 
given  to  the  people  direct.  There  were  lively  times 
at  No.  10.  The  Maurice  affair  was  on.  The  House 
of  Commons  had  just  given  him  the  vote  of  confi- 
dence on  the  conduct  of  the  war.  Something  of 
the  pristine  strength  of  his  ringing  speech,  when 
he  utterly  routed  his  critics,  seemed  to  rest  upon 
him.  If  Clemenceau  carried  the  role  of  "The 
Tiger,"  Lloyd  George  looked  "The  Lion." 

When  he  received  a  telegram  from  Billy  Sunday, 
praising  him  for  his  speech,  he  was  pleased  and 
said,  "Bully  for  Billy." 

The  great  war  had  seemed  to  put  more  flint 
than  ever  in  his  face,  and  I  could  but  feel  that  the 
words  he  uttered  concerning  Clemenceau,  "He  is 
a  hard  man  to  refuse,"  might  be  true  of  him  also. 

The  Irish  question  was  acute.  As  I  remember, 
it  was  Michael  Devitt  who  first  inspired  in  him 
the  idea  of  running  for  Parliament.  Devitt  had 
been  speaking  on  Home  Rule.    Lloyd  George  was 


174  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

so  impressed  that  he  was  chosen  to  move  a  vote 
of  thanks  to  the  speaker.  His  words  were  couched 
in  such  lucid  and  epigrammatic  phrase  that  Devitt 
told  the  people  he  ought  to  be  in  the  House  of 
Parliament,  at  the  same  time  prophesying  a  bril- 
liant career.  It  would  not  be  strange  if  he  should 
be  instrumental  in  helping  solve  the  question  of 
Home  Rule  for  Ireland. 

As  I  sat  there  talking  informally  with  this  man, 
I  could  not  refrain  from  recalling  the  massive 
strides  he  had  taken,  not  only  since  I  last  saw  him, 
but  also  from  his  humble  beginnings  as  a  barrister 
in  a  Welsh  town.  Left  poor  by  his  father,  he 
struggled  on  until  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at 
twenty-one.  He  often  said  that  his  first  parlia- 
ment was  in  the  "smithy"  of  Hugh  Jones  in 
Wales,  where,  with  the  townsfolk  all  questions  were 
discussed  for  this  world  and  for  the  next.  They 
"warmed  up"  with  politics,  then  took  up  science 
and  philosophy,  and  came  back  to  politics  again. 

Denied  the  privileges  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge, 
he  has  been  granted  honorary  degrees  in  both, 
and  during  the  period  of  my  visit  was  off  to  Edin- 
burgh to  take  another  honorary  degree.  Yet  he 
ever  paid  tribute  to  the  humble  school  of  his  home 
town,  saying  "Whatever  I  do,  I  owe  to  the  little 
school  at  Bethel." 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  175 

When  he  first  began  public  life  it  was  the  habit 
of  his  wife  to  accompany  him  everywhere  in  an 
inspirational  capacity.  Later,  a  marvelously  gifted 
daughter  was  of  incalculable  help,  and  her  death 
was  perhaps  the  greatest  sorrow  of  his  life. 

His  path  was  never  smooth,  yet  this  little  David 
struggled  on.  When  he  first  entered  Parliament, 
he  himself  felt  that  he  was  a  misfit.  The  scoffs  and 
sneers  of  the  gentry  freely  came  his  way.  Yet 
there  was  one  seer  in  Parliament  who  recognized 
his  worth  and  who  praised  him  for  his  maiden 
speech — that  man  was  Gladstone. 

His  first  appearance  in  the  Cabinet  was  in  the 
capacity  of  a  business  man  rather  than  that  of  a 
lawyer  or  statesman.  He  appeared  as  president 
of  the  Board  of  Trade,  which  body  differs  mate- 
rially from  the  moribund  organizations  in  this 
country,  for  in  England  the  Board  of  Trade  repre- 
sents the  controlling  factors  in  the  big  business 
of  the  Empire.  It  was  in  this  capacity  that  he 
early  exemplified  a  tendency  to  smash  traditions. 

A  representative  of  the  Seaman's  Union  fur- 
nished me  with  an  illustration  of  this.  He  said 
at  one  time  a  delegation,  after  being  promised  help, 
were  told  to  come  back  for  his  disposition  of  the 
matter.  As  they  did  so,  they  were  met  by  another 
functionary  of  the  Board,  who  not  only  refused 


176  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

them  admittance,  but  told  them  that  the  promised 
help  could  not  be  given.  Lloyd  George  entered, 
greeted  them  and  asked  them  to  come  in,  and  in 
ten  minutes  had  done  what  moss-grown  customs 
said  could  not  be  done. 

Just  at  this  junction  some  old  Welsh  friends 
came  in  to  call  at  No.  10  Downing  Street.  I  could 
not  understand  the  Welsh  phrases  or  names.  I 
did  manage,  however,  to  catch  the  name  of  one 
town,  and  that  was  Llanystumdwy.  No  wonder 
that  town  produced  something,  and  that  his  uncle, 
"the  learned  cobbler,"  to  whom  the  boy  David 
was  turned  over  on  the  death  of  his  father,  has  in 
the  Premier  of  Great  Britain  one  not  only  capable 
of  delivering  impassioned  speeches  in  his  native 
tongue,  but  who  is  a  master  of  English  diction  as 
well.  Their  visit  formed  the  link  to  the  one  great 
accomplishment  of  his  life. 

Like  Talleyrand,  he  seldom  ever  writes  a  letter 
or  destroys  one.  He  is  pre-eminently  a  speaker, 
the  only  notable  exception  to  this  was  at  Birming- 
ham. He  said:  "When  they  refused  to  hear  me, 
I  dictated  the  speech  behind  the  scenes  while  the 
crowd  was  storming  outside;  but  it  was  printed  in 
full  in  the  papers  next  morning.  Your  Congres- 
sional Records  contain  many  speeches  never  deliv- 
ered, 'by  leave  to  print,'  "  he  said.     All  of  his 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

SIR  ERIC  GEDDES 
Britain's  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty 


L3 


ADMIRAL  WILLIAM  S.  SIMS,  U.  S.  \. 
This  photograph  is  a  recent  one,  taken  in  London 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  177 

notable  utterances  are  extemporaneous,  and 
whether  in  public  debate  or  private  conversa- 
tion, his  words  fall  into  place  with  spontaneous 
precision  and  beautiful  structure. 

Before  taking  up  the  duties  of  Premiership,  he 
proved  his  worth  as  Minister  of  Munitions. 

All  these  steps  lead  up  naturally  to  the  high  place 
he  holds  in  the  Empire  and  quite  clearly  show 
manifest  destiny.  How  comes  it  that  five  hundred 
million  of  his  countrymen  look  to  him  as  one 
hundred  million  Americans  to  President  Wilson 
for  the  word  which  is  to  give  direction  to  the  war? 
He  is  pre-eminently  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the 
wilderness  make  straight  the  path  of  free  peoples. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  that  in  the  opening 
paragraphs  of  his  first  speech  as  Premier  he  should 
quote  the  words  of  Abraham  Lincoln:  "We 
accepted  the  war  for  an  object,  a  worthy  object. 
The  war  will  end  when  that  object  is  attained. 
Under  God,  I  hope  it  will  never  end  until  that 
time." 

Always  a  great  traveler,  having  spent  much 
time  in  Germany,  he  not  only  knows  the  enemy,  but 
the  Allies  as  well.  He  cherishes  a  warm  regard  for 
America  and  loves  the  story  of  Lincoln.  Like 
Lincoln,  he  hates  slavery,  as  practiced  by  the 
Hun   in   bleeding  Belgium   or  paralytic   Russia. 


178  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

His  one  passion  is  to  hit  oppression  between  the 
eyes,  to  see  weaker  peoples  lifted  up,  and  peace 
made  the  heritage  of  the  world. 

He  is  particularly  fitted  for  leadership  in  the 
present  crisis.  First  elected  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons by  a  majority  of  only  eighteen  votes,  he  was 
sent  by  the  Welsh  as  a  man  representing  the 
common  people.  Since  that  day  he  has  ever 
remained  a  true  Commoner.  Of  the  plain  people, 
for  the  plain  people,  and  by  the  plain  people  he 
truly  represents  them.  Probably  he  is  the  first  man 
to  be  Premier  of  England  who  was  not  a  college 
graduate.  He  is  close  to  that  great  circle,  in  which 
most  men  are  destined  to  live  and  die,  spoken  of 
as  the  working  class.  He  talks  with  them,  even 
going  to  the  mouth  of  the  mines  to  do  so.  He 
knows  their  needs,  their  aims,  and  their  hopes. 
That  he  has  held  them  loyal  in  the  great  war  is 
one  of  his  most  masterful  achievements. 

Not  only  is  he  the  representative  of  the  laborer, 
but  also  the  champion  of  patriotic  gentry.  The 
rights  and  duties  of  both  are  blended  by  him  in 
a  new  community  of  interest  in  which  each  is  for 
all  and  all  for  each. 

Even  his  first  public  speaking  as  a  temperance 
advocate  serves  him  well  now  and  fits  him  to  be 
a  leader  in  war  prohibition.      But   it   is  as  the 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  179 

mouth-piece  of  an  empire  that  he  comes  to  his 
own.  As  a  debater,  he  ranks  as  one  of  the  great- 
est England  has  produced.  No  matter  what  the 
occasion,  he  rises  to  it.  To  his  unusual  command 
of  language  must  be  added  a  marvelously  musical 
voice. 

In  Parliament  I  saw  his  colleague,  A.  Bonar 
Law,  a  veritable  antithesis  of  the  Premier.  He 
was  formerly  an  iron  manufacturer  in  Glasgow  and 
is  pre-eminently  a  business  man,  whose  tongue 
never  turns  a  purple  phrase.  He  deals  in  figures, 
and  his  tabulations  have  all  the  fascination  of  a  ro- 
mance. He  is  the  business  brains  of  the  Empire! 
The  friend  with  whom  I  was  sitting  in  the  gallery 
said:  "Bonar  Law  may  hear  his  budget  torn  to 
tatters  in  the  debate,  but  it  will  remain  just  as  he 
put  it."  A.  Bonar  Law  is  a  man  to  plan,  and 
Lloyd  George  is  a  man  for  action.  Two  iron  men, 
political  rivals,  working  together  in  concord. 

Coming  out  of  No.  10  Downing  Street,  with  its 
comparative  quiet,  I  seemed  to  hear  the  rich 
cadences  of  one  voice — a  voice  first  raised  in  the 
shop  of  Hugh  Jones,  where,  amid  the  flash  of  the 
forge  and  the  din  of  hammer,  it  joined  in  political 
comment  in  what  constituted  that  first  Parliament 
of  David  Lloyd  George.  Emerging  into  the  din 
of   London's    busy    streets,    made    deafening    by 


180  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  rumble  of  war-laden  trucks,  I  heard,  speaking 
not  only  for  empire,  but  for  the  federation  of  the 
world,  the  crashing  and  defiant  voice  of  Lloyd 
George — "To  the  knock-out." 


XVIII 


THE  ADMIRALTY"  AND  ADMIRAL  SIMS 


A  RRIVING  in  London  my  first  impulse  was 
f~\  to  locate  Admiral  Sims.  I  set  out  im- 
mediately for  Grosvenor  Garden,  once  an 
exclusive  residential  section,  but  now  the  center 
of  American  activity.  Here  were  the  American 
Embassy,  and  the  Naval  and  Red  Cross  head- 
quarters. A  familiar  flag  waved  at  Number  28.  I 
knew  Admiral  Sims  was  there.  His  office  is  on 
the  second  floor.  He  was  seated  at  his  desk  as  I 
entered,  but  rose  to  greet  me — his  slight  and  tall 
form  pushing  upward  until  it  resembled  a  Carolina 
pine.  After  the  hazardous  journey  across  the 
Channel  the  prevous  night,  it  was  good  to  see  the 
man  whose  watchful  arm  of  service  spells  safety 
in  the  danger  zone. 

He  was  just  finishing  some  dispatches  for  a 
returning  ship.  When  they  were  completed,  tea 
was  served  on  his  big  flat  desk.  Over  the  cups  in 
what  seemed  to  me  an  incredibly  short  time,  and 

(181) 


182  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

with  an  ease  and  simplicity,  that  was  startling,  he 
had  drawn  with  pencil  and  paper,  diagrams  show- 
ing American  naval  activities  in  the  North  Sea, 
and  the  destroyer  base,  indicating  how  they  had 
accounted  for  thirty-eight  of  the  enemy  subma- 
rines. I  asked  for  these  diagrams  as  souvenirs, 
and  I  value  them  among  the  most  treasured  re- 
minders of  my  trip. 

Here  was  the  man  whose  epigrammatic  phrase, 
in  reply  to  the  question  as  to  when  the  American 
Navy  would  be  ready,  "We  are  ready  now!"  not 
only  captured  the  British  Admiralty,  but  thrilled 
his  own  countrymen  as  well. 

He  had  just  been  preparing  a  message  on 
Mother's  Day.  I  was  complimented  when  he 
asked  me  to  hear  it  read.  If  the  people  at  home 
could  have  seen  his  face  and  listened  to  the  soft 
music  of  his  voice,  they  would  have  seen  how 
tender  at  heart  is  this  man  of  iron  and  steel. 
Before  he  began  reading,  he  said  with  a  touch  of 
the  lover  and  father: 

"When  you  get  home,  won't  you  go  to  Newport 
and  see  Mrs.  Sims  and  the  kiddies?" 

Then  emphasizing  some  of  the  words  in  his 
message  he  said: 

"Tell  the  people  at  home  how  they  can  help 
the  fighting  men  abroad.     We  of  the  Army  and 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  183 

Navy  can  do  nothing  without  destroyers,  ammu- 
nition and  food.  These  cannot  be  brought  to 
us  without  ships.  All  of  these  essentials  must  be 
supplied  from  home,  and  in  supplying  them 
everybody  can  help  by  each  one  doing  his  work 
with  a  smile,  and  with  all  his  might.  The  men 
who  are  building  destroyers  and  merchant  ships 
are  really  in  the  fighting  line.  Every  blow  of 
their  hammers  is  a  blow  at  the  enemy." 

When  I  spoke  of  the  patriotic  spirit  in  the 
American  homes,  he  said: 

"Wives  can  help  so  much  by  taking  care  of 
men  who  are  doing  their  part  in  the  work  by 
making  their  homes  pleasant  and  encouraging 
them." 

Then  with  a  fine  touch  he  added: 

"Even  little  children  can  help  by  being  good 
and  assisting  their  mothers.  Everybody  can  help 
by  wasting  nothing — neither  food,  nor  money,  nor 
clothing,  nor  time." 

As  if  a  broader  vision  came  to  him  he  continued : 

"Work  in  factory,  farm,  or  office  matters  very 
much.  The  accumulative  effect  of  many  millions 
of  jobs  has  its  influence  upon  the  war." 

Straightening  back  he  remarked  with  emphasis: 

"There  are  just  two  things  to  do  to  win  the 
war— work  and  fight." 


184  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Then  referring  to  my  visits  on  the  various 
battle  fronts,  he  said: 

"You've  seen  enough  in  France  and  Italy  to 
show  you  how  four  years  of  war  has  worn  down 
the  people.  Now  our  people  must  furnish  the 
fresh  reserves." 

To  keep  these  epigrams  going  I  asked:  "In 
your  work,  Admiral,  what  gives  you  the  greatest 
satisfaction?" 

"The  spirit  of  our  men  working  with  the  men  of 
other  navies — they  are  like  old  messmates." 

After  looking  in  vain  for  the  sugar  for  our  tea 
the  Admiral  added,  "We  are  working  in  perfect 
harmony  and  fellowship,  not  only  alongside  of,  but 
with  the  navies  of  the  Allies." 

When  I  asked  him  what  the  Grand  Fleet  was 
doing,  he  caught  up  pencil  and  paper,  and  in  a 
moment  with  surprising  dexterity,  showing  minute 
knowledge  of  the  whole  range  of  action,  he  began 
drawing  diagrams.  At  a  certain  place  with  a 
blue  pencil,  he  indicated  where  the  Allies  planted 
mines  by  day,  and  with  a  red  pencil  how  the 
Germans  swept  them  out  by  night,  this  process 
being  repeated  day  by  day. 

Just  then  he  was  interrupted  to  say  good-bye 
to  a  messenger  who  was  leaving  for  America 
bearing  important  documents. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  185 

While  I  was  sitting  in  a  corner  waiting,  how 
proud  I  felt  of  this  man.  Canadian  born,  an 
instructor  in  the  Naval  War  College  at  Newport, 
there  was  something  in  his  bearing  which  seemed 
particularly  to  fit  him  for  the  work  of  blending 
navies  together.  His  splendid  American  uniform 
with  its  trim  collar  fitted  his  tall  classic  frame, 
and  his  every  movement  indicated  a  rare  combi- 
nation of  the  gentleman  and  the  fighter — the 
diplomat  and  the  Admiral.  His  desk  was  as 
broad  as  the  quarter  deck  of  a  ship,  yet  indi- 
cated by  its  neat  appearance  the  precision  of  the 
man. 

Little  did  the  builders  of  the  old  Grosvenor 
Mansion  think  that  one  of  the  rooms  on  the  second 
floor  back  would  open  its  folding  doors  as  the 
headquarters  of  the  American  Navy  in  Europe. 

Finally  he  said:  "You  must  first  visit  the 
Admiralty,  and  I  will  arrange  it.  The  big  thing 
for  you  to  do  is  to  see  the  Grand  Fleet  and  visit 
the  destroyer  base."  I  felt  at  once  that  I  was 
under  "orders." 

SIR  ERIC  GEDDES,  FIRST  LORD  OF  THE  ADMIRALTY 

At  the  Admiralty  there  seemed  to  be  a  new 
welcomish  sort  of  atmosphere.  I  did  not  quite 
understand   this   until   I   saw   a   certain   familiar 


186  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

figure  and  remembered  the  story  of  his  career  in 
the  United  States.  His  manner  was  that  of  a 
manager  in  a  large  American  industrial  corpora- 
tion. When  I  found  he  was  so  much  interested 
in  the  South,  I  promised  to  send  him  one  of  our 
publications  entitled  "Wizards  of  the  Saddle," 
in  which  there  is  a  special  tribute  paid  to  one  of 
his  heroes,  "Jeb"  Stuart  of  Confederate  fame. 

From  the  manager  of  baggage-smashers  to  the 
direction  of  fleet-smashers  has  a  decidedly  Ameri- 
can sound,  yet  that  compasses  the  story  of  Sir 
Eric  Geddes. 

When  he  was  sent  to  the  Merchiston  Castle 
School  in  Edinburgh,  the  head  master,  after  some 
years,  said  to  him: 

"Ye've  no  metaphysics,  ye've  no  leeterature, 
ye've  no  art,  but  ye've  a  future." 

When  young  Eric,  still  in  his  teens,  started  away 
to  America  and  engaged  as  a  foreman  of  a  crew 
in  a  lumber  camp  in  the  South,  there  was  not 
much  promise.  Yet,  clad  in  his  blue  overalls,  out 
in  the  great  forests,  he  was  absorbing  the  embryo 
knowledge  which  was  to  enter  into  the  prophesied 
career.  It  was  here  that  he  gained  the  first  lessons 
in  the  handling  of  labor.  His  success  with  men, 
in  winning  their  affection,  co-ordinating  their 
efforts  in  production,  soon  reached  the  ears  of  a 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  187 

high  official  of  the  Baltimore  &  Ohio  Railroad,  and 
the  youthful  Scot  was  put  at  the  task  of  superin- 
tending station  agents  and  the  construction  of 
power  houses  and  freight  yards. 

Again  he  proved  he  was  master.  By  the  side 
of  the  railroad  he  proved  to  be  "the  friend  of  man." 
More  than  that,  he  knew  how  to  get  things  done. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  received  a  nattering 
offer  from  a  railway  company  in  India,  where  his 
father  was  once  a  civil  engineer  and  made  his 
fortune.  Here  he  applied  the  very  same  prin- 
ciples which  he  had  learned  in  the  South  with 
"Finnegan  and  Flannagan."  He  streaked  his  way 
through  the  railway  hierarchy  with  the  speed  of  a 
comet. 

His  name  finally  came  to  the  attention  of 
officials  of  the  Great  Northeastern  in  England. 
He  was  but  thirty  years  old  at  the  time.  When  the 
period  of  labor  strikes  began  in  Great  Britain,  on 
that  dark  night  just  before  the  war,  he  proved  to 
be  the  most  powerful  link  between  labor  and 
corporation,  between  working  men  and  capital. 
His  knowledge  of  men,  their  working  conditions, 
their  hopes  and  hardships  had  been  gained  while 
he,  himself,  toiled  in  blue  overalls.  He  came  to 
the  adjustment  of  these  labor  situations  not  with  a 
theory,  but  with  an  experience.     Lloyd  George, 


188  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

in  many  an  eloquent  and  complimentary  phrase, 
praised  him  for  the  manner  in  which  he  handled 
some  of  the  most  baffling  strikes. 

When  it  became  necessary  for  the  transfer  of 
the  railroads  of  the  empire  from  boards  of  directors 
to  the  government  itself,  he  proved  to  be  the  one 
pivotal  man  around  whom  the  movement  could 
turn. 

This  explained  the  large  number  of  maps  which 
I  saw  on  the  walls,  indicating  the  great  route 
centers  of  the  Empire. 

Up  to  two  years  ago,  the  world  knew  very  little 
about  this  man.  Yet  the  war  gave  Sir  Eric  the 
opportunity  to  become  one  of  the  pre-eminent 
figures  in  the  great  conflict  and  to  make  his  name 
a  household  word  on  all  sides  of  the  seas. 

It  was  the  transportation  question  on  the 
Western  Front,  the  construction  of  railways  in 
the  war  zone  commensurate  with  the  great  need 
of  moving  supplies  and  guns,  which  brought  Sir 
Eric  to  his  present  place  in  the  empire.  It  was  a 
giant's  task  and  it  was  proven  that  a  giant  had 
taken  it  up.  His  success  was  immediate  in  France 
and  he  was  rewarded  with  a  knighthood. 

It  was  during  his  sojourn  in  the  South  that  he 
made  a  study  of  the  blockade  during  the  Civil 
War.     He  maintains  now  that  the  cause  of  the 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  189 

Confederacy  was  doomed  from  the  first,  because 
of  the  persistence  and  tenacity  of  the  blockade. 

In  the  Admiralty  his  one  insistence  has  been  on 
the  blockade.  No  matter  what  Germany's  sub- 
marines might  do  or  her  spiked-helmeted  armies 
accomplish,  the  sea  could  never  be  hers.  To  form 
a  blockade  through  which  no  supplies  could  reach 
the  enemy  has  been  his  one  creed.  This  was  to  be 
the  steel  noose  around  the  neck  of  Germany  which 
would  sooner  or  later  strangle  her  to  death. 

ADMIRAL  SIR  DAVID  BEATTY 

Quite  naturally  when  I  visited  the  Grand  Fleet 
my  eyes  sought  out  the  First  Admiral — Sir  David 
Beatty.  I  was  particularly  interested  in  the  man, 
for  he  is  a  good  example  in  life  and  practice  of  the 
spirit  of  the  Allied  nations  now  so  fully  manifest. 

His  marriage  to  the  daughter  of  Marshall  Field 
of  Chicago  resulted  in  a  happy  alliance  of  nation- 
ality. For  in  this  war  Lady  Beatty  has  shown 
herself  not  only  to  be  a  woman  of  great  patriotism, 
but  of  magnificent  spirit  and  ability  as  well. 

She  used  her  yacht  as  a  hospital  tender,  carrying 
wounded  soldiers  and  supplies  from  one  hospital 
to  another,  and  has  provided  surgeons  and  acces- 
sories from  her  own  means  to  soothe  and  restore 
those  broken  in  the  stress  of  battle.    She  has  cared 


190  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

little  for  a  large  place  in  society;  rather  her  whole 
energies  have  been  bent  to  help  her  gallant 
husband  in  the  service  of  his  country  and  to  the 
cause  of  humanity. 

The  career  of  Sir  David  Beatty  is,  therefore, 
particularly  interesting  to  Americans. 

From  the  day  when  he  stepped  on  the  deck  as  a 
midshipman,  thirty  years  ago,  to  the  present  hour, 
his  rise  has  been  more  rapid  than  even  the  naval 
rules  of  Great  Britain  allow — special  legislation 
being  needed  for  one  of  his  age.  At  twenty-nine 
he  was  captain  of  the  Queen,  and  on  relinquishing 
her  went  to  the  Admiralty  as  naval  adviser  to  the 
First  Lord.  His  advice,  however,  did  not  harmon- 
ize particularly  well  with  the  then  First  Lord,  and 
he  was  retired  on  half  pay;  but  when  Churchill 
came  to  power  again  he  sent  for  Sir  David  and 
restored  him  as  First  Adviser.  From  Naval 
Adviser  he  stepped  on  deck  again  to  command 
what  is  probably  the  most  formidable  fleet  of 
fighting  ships  which  ever  sailed  the  blue. 

Off  ship,  Sir  David  appears  the  typical  country 
gentleman,  his  fine  features  and  clean-cut  bearing 
making  him  a  marked  man  in  any  company.  He 
never  talks  ship  when  on  shore,  and  is  the  pro- 
verbial Briton  as  to  his  silence  about  the  move- 
ments of  the  fleet.    Yet  on  board  ship  he  is  a  sailor, 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  191 

a  worker,  a  master  of  detail,  a  manager  of  men,  the 
infuser  of  spirit  and  courage.  At  the  battle  of 
Jutland,  notice  was  served  on  the  world  that  in 
him  Great  Britain  has  another  Nelson  in  the 
making,  cool,  capable,  resourceful,  dauntless,  in 
whose  hands  the  destiny  of  a  mighty  fleet  is  safe. 
In  the  brilliant  action  of  the  British  fleet  off 
Heligoland,  when  the  Blucher  was  sunk,  he  proved 
himself  to  be  worthy  of  the  promotion  which 
followed. 

SIR  ROSSLYN  WEMYSS 

When  I  saw  a  man  in  a  naval  uniform  walking 
across  the  courtyard  at  the  Admiralty,  a  bystander 
whispered,  "There's  Wemyss."  A  mysterious 
Admiralty  aureole  surrounds  the  "First  Sea  Lord," 
whoever  he  may  be.  Little  known  to  the  public, 
Sir  Rosslyn  Wemyss  (pronounced  Weems)  carries 
out  this  role.  In  the  hot  sun,  almost  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Admiralty  walls,  I  gleaned  from 
Mr.  Arthur  Pollen,  a  naval  expert  writer,  some 
information  of  the  First  Sea  Lord  of  1918. 

When  the  war  clouds  broke,  Admiral  WTemyss 
was  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  later  was  com- 
mander of  the  squadron  landing  troops  at  Galli- 
poli.  He  was  born  in  Wemyss  Castle  at  Fife  in 
1864,  and  entered  the  Navy  in  1877.  He  has  a 
list  of  titles  that  run  up  as  rapidly  as  the  treads 


192  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

of  stairs.  He  speaks  French  fluently,  and  this 
accounts  for  his  success  in  co-operating  with  the 
French  and  Italian  fleets.  The  rapidity  with  which 
he  had  effected  an  efficient  organization  is  already 
a  glowing  part  of  the  records  of  the  Admiralty. 

He  first  served  as  Second  Sea  Lord,  having  direc- 
tion of  the  strategetical  work.  The  younger  ele- 
ment in  the  navy  centered  their  hopes  on  "Rosy" 
Wemyss,  as  his  friends  call  his,  and  Sir  Eric  Geddes 
cast  aside  the  veil  of  mystery  and  naval  profes- 
sionalism and  settled  upon  the  silent  Wemyss  while 
retaining  innate  respect  of  the  British  toward  the 
traditions  of  the  Admiralty.  The  purpose  was  to 
convert  sound  ideas  into  practical  and  effective 
action. 

In  temperament,  Admiral  Wemyss  resembles 
General  Grant — a  silent  organizer.  Fortunately  he 
was  never  much  about  the  Admiralty  office  in 
times  of  peace,  and  is  not  harassed  by  precedents, 
but  moves  swiftly  forward  as  war  necessities 
appear.  He  studies  his  problems  in  the  light  of 
eternal  Noio,  and  is  thoroughly  informed  on  what 
Germans  have  been  doing  to  strengthen  their 
navy,  perhaps  adding  twenty-five  per  cent  from 
the  Russian  fleet. 

Is  it  to  be  wondered,  after  glimpsing  some  of 
these  personalities,  that  I  fell  under  the  spell  of 


Copyright, 
Harris  &■ 
Ewing 


HON.  NEWTON  D.  BAKER,  Secretary  of  War,  U.  S.  A. 


'  'opyright, 
Harris  & 

liirintj 


HON'.  JOSEPHUS  DANIELS,  Secretary  of  Navy,  U.S.A. 


LORD  LEVERHULME 

The  creator  of  Port  Sunlight,  England 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  193 

the  "Admiralty,"  or  honored  and  respected  an 
envelope  or  passport  marked  with  its  magic  seal? 
The  civic  "First  Lord,"  the  naval  "First  Sea  Lord," 
and  the  "Commander  of  the  Grand  Fleet"  are 
the  high  places  in  the  Admiralty.  But  it  is  the 
British  people,  in  their  unswerving  loyalty  and 
support,  which  constitute  the  Admiralty,  and  it  is 
to  them  the  world  owes  its  debt  for  a  fleet  which 
has  rendered  unmeasured  service  to  civilization 
in  this  war. 


XIX 


A  VISIT  TO  THE   GRAND   FLEET 


THE  Admiralty!"  That  word  is  held  in  awe 
by  the  English  people,  and  as  an  institution 
it  represents  Britain's  supreme  might  on 
the  seas.  As  I  went  down  Trafalgar  Square, 
where  the  statue  of  Nelson  seemed  to  point  the 
way,  I  unconsciously  began  whistling  the  refrain 
in  Pinafore:  "I  Am  the  Monarch  of  the  Seas," 
which  was  soon  to  lose  all  its  flippant  satire,  and 
become  portentous  with  meaning. 

Selecting  one  of  the  many  entrances,  I  passed 
the  grim  walls  of  Whitehall,  vibrant  with  memory. 
Crossing  an  old  cobbled  courtyard  and  entering  an 
ancient  building,  I  found  myself  confronted  with 
the  authority  of  the  Admiralty.  A  document 
giving  my  name,  where  I  slept  last,  the  date  of  my 
birth  and  the  complete  details  of  the  purpose  of 
my  visit,  was  signed  and  recorded.  My  card  was 
sent  flying  up  the  starboard  stairway.  Through 
a  dark  corridor,  lined  with  large  iron  pipes  showing 

(194) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  195 

how  the  old  headquarters  had  been  made  com- 
fortable by  the  installation  of  a  heating  apparatus 
since  the  days  of  Nelson,  I  made  my  way. 

In  Room  62  my  papers  were  censored  and  in 
Room  60  directly  opposite  was  Sir  Douglas 
Brownrigg,  Chief  Censor.  He  looked  at  me  over 
his  glasses  and  I  knew  from  his  manner  that  he 
had  received  a  message  from  Admiral  Sims  and 
expected  me.  I  noticed  in  passing  Room  60  a 
hospitable  placard  written  with  a  blue  pencil 
which  said:  "Walk  in,  don't  knock."  It  was  so 
cordial  that  off  came  my  hat.  Across  the  hall  on 
door  62  was  another  notice  which  smacked  of  the 
severity  of  the  Admiralty.  It  read:  "Knock 
before  you  enter  and  take  off  your  hat." 

Sir  Douglas  Brownrigg  is  responsible  for  what 
passes  to  the  public.  His  brisk  manner  suggested 
the  newspaper  worker,  for  such  he  was  in  the  early 
days.  Conferences  were  going  on  with  naval 
and  army  officers,  together  with  civilians,  all 
seeking  the  magic  stamp  "Admiralty."  While  I 
was  there,  word  was  received  of  the  blocking  of 
the  channel  at  Zeebrugge,  by  the  sinking  of  the 
Vindictive.  This  report  on  a  slip  of  pink  copy 
paper  was  turned  over  to  me,  where  in  the  terse 
language  of  the  war  records  was  related  the 
simple  details  of  the  undertaking,  together  with  the 


196  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

account  of  the  death  of  Commander  Goodsall  and 
his  brave  men,  who  had  given  their  lives  volun- 
tarily to  stop  the  maw  of  the  murderous  submarine. 
This  act  of  confidence  has  won  other  millions  of 
enthusiasts  for  the  Admiralty. 

My  papers  having  been  properly  inspected,  I 
stood  before  Sir  Douglas  while  more  pale  purple 
was  put  on  my  passport.  I,  too,  was  now  a  part 
of  the  Admiralty. 

At  the  injunction  of  Admiral  Sims,  I  placed 
myself  entirely  in  their  hands.  "Proceed  to  King 
Cross  Station  Sunday  night  at  9:45  and  await 
messenger,"  the  order  read.  I  went  a-top  a  bus, 
having  failed  to  kidnap  a  taxi.  Circling  around 
Hyde  Park  and  other  areas  that  are  on  the  map, 
but  still  unknown  to  me,  Kings  Cross  Station 
hove  in  sight.  I  had  evidently  missed  the  King's 
messenger,  for  I  was  late,  so  I  proceeded  to  the 
train  designated. 

The  compartments  were  "full  up"  a  half  hour 
before  starting  time,  so  I  dashed  up  and  down  the 
platform  trying  to  find  a  landing  and  the  King's 
messenger  at  the  same  time.  When  the  little 
"toot,  toot"  was  heard  and  the  train  almost 
silently  started  to  glide  away,  I  decided  quickly  on 
a  compartment  in  the  rear  where  five  middies 
were  bidding  a  fond  farewell  to  some  lasses.     A 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  197 

soft  remark,  by  one  of  the  girls  who,  with  arched 
eyebrows,  asked,  "Are  you  not  full  up?"  was 
meant  for  me.  "But  what  boot  it?"  I  said  to  myself 
with  brave  classic  phrase — "I  must  get  aboard." 
Intent  on  their  farewell  I  slipped  in  and  took  a 
seat  marked  for  them  and  where  the  five  middies 
had  already  planted  their  boxes  and  luggage. 
We  looked  at  each  other — an  eye  to  eye  "just- 
get-acquainted-or-quit"  challenge. 

From  small  suitcases  the  middies  proceeded  to 
bring  out  their  luncheon.  Consternation  reigned 
when  it  was  discovered  they  had  no  cigarettes. 
Here  is  where  the  incense  and  proffer  of  gold- 
tipped  cigarettes  cemented  friendships.  They 
offered  me  in  return  beef  sandwiches  and,  I 
thought,  "Well,  here  is  one  meat  coupon  saved 
anyhow." 

A  King's  messenger  was  discovered  in  the 
next  compartment  by  the  middies.  Alone  in  his 
solitary  authority  I  was  tempted  to  knock — but 
I  remembered  the  Admiralty  sign.  If  you  want 
gorgeous  gayety,  spend  the  night  with  middies 
returning  from  leave.  Rollicking  stories  of  their 
experiences  aboard  the  good  ship  Indomitable 
were  interrupted  when  the  whistle  screeched  an- 
nouncement of  our  entrance  into  the  ancient  town 
of  York.     It  was  now  2  a.  m.     The  blast  of  the 


198  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

whistle  was  loud  enough  to  wake  the  Archbishop 
of  York,  and  the  boys  explained  "here  is  where 
we  meet  the  Duchess."  They  piled  out  on  the 
platform  and  found  the  canteen  for  soldiers  and 
sailors,  but  no  one  in  civilian  clothes  could  have 
even  so  much  as  a  drop  of  tea.  The  Duchess  was 
obdurate  and  it  looked  as  though  I  must  go  hungry, 
but  the  middy  boys  motioned  me  to  retire  to  the 
carriage  where  they  brought  me  a  dish  of  tea  and 
brown  war  biscuit.  As  ginger  ale  and  seltzer 
bottles  were  procured,  the  hazing  spirit  possessed 
the  middies.  The  open  window  of  the  compart- 
ment of  the  King's  messenger  was  too  tempting. 
The  spray  brought  a  gruff  monologue  from  the 
inside  having  to  do  with  leaving  windows  open 
when  it  rained. 

"To  sleep  or  not  to  sleep,  that  was  the  question." 
The  Duchess  and  her  tea  chariot  were  left  behind. 
One  middy  put  his  legs  through  the  arm  straps 
of  a  seat  and  hung  up.  Two  others  went  aloft 
in  the  parcel  rack  and  two  more  "took  the  deck," 
lying  side  by  side  with  heads  in  opposite  direction 
on  the  floor — one  head  projecting  out  into  the  cor- 
ridor in  order  to  make  the  guard  careful  when  he 
passed  through.  Then  they  put  me  to  bed.  At 
4  a.  m.  the  train  whirled  into  Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
and  another  "lady-in-waiting"  with  refreshments 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  199 

was  sighted.  The  women  of  England  are  doing 
splendid  work  day  and  night  for  soldiers  and 
sailors.  At  every  railway  junction  where  troops 
stop,  there  are  women  with  tea  and  cakes.  Some 
pieces  of  the  bread,  the  middies  remarked,  would 
make  good  paving  blocks. 

In  the  early  morning  we  passed  the  mammoth 
shipbuilding  plant  at  Newcastle.  The  airdrome 
near  Edinburgh  was  also  sighted  near  dawn  and 
when  the  towers  of  Holyrood  Castle  appeared,  I 
knew  we  were  in  the  land  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  for 
it  was  Waverly  Station.  A  Scotch  breakfast,  oat- 
meal, of  course,  was  provided,  but  there  was  no 
sugar,  no  cream.  "Try  a  wee  bit  more  of  salt 
and  you'll  na  miss  it,"  said  the  Scotch  waitress 
sympathetically. 

On  the  bulletin  board  at  North  British  Hotel  my 
name  was  posted.  The  Admiralty  had  evidently 
shadowed  me.  The  telegram  which  was  handed 
me  was  opened  with  misgivings  that  I  possibly 
might  be  recalled.  The  message  read:  "Proceed 
to  Waverly  Station  at  10:15,  where  an  American 
officer  will  meet  you."  I  remembered  Admiral 
Sims'  injunction  and  obeyed. 

In  the  Scotch  mist  of  the  morning,  I  drove  out 
to  call  on  some  members  of  the  Rotary,  who  had 
arranged  a  dinner  at  the  Conservative  Club  that 


200  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

night.  Then  I  drove  to  Morningside  Circle  to 
see  the  sister  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Andrew  Adie  of 
Boston,  who  had  sailed  from  here  as  a  young  man 
many  years  ago  to  win  fame  and  fortune  in  the 
new  world.  He  had  achieved  both  and  became 
one  of  the  patriotic  American  leaders,  doing  much 
for  the  great  cause.  The  Braid  hills,  the  country 
of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  never  looked  more 
beautiful  than  in  the  morning  mist,  regal  in  the 
glory  of  the  purple  heather. 

I  rang  the  bell.  There  was  no  response.  The 
awning  was  drawn  over  the  door.  Later  I  learned 
that  the  sister  at  that  moment  was  out  under  the 
mournful  trees,  burying  her  son,  who,  wounded  in 
France,  had  come  home  to  be  cared  for  by  the 
sacred  hands  of  motherhood.  Here  I  was  in  heart 
touch  with  the  houses  of  mourning  which  dotted 
the  fair  land  of  Robert  Burns.  True  to  the  tradi- 
tions of  Robert  Bruce,  Scotish  bravery  ever  re- 
mains tried  and  true,  and  weighed  in  the  balance 
is  not  found  wanting. 

On  past  the  Church  of  John  Knox,  through 
Princess  Street  and  the  statue  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
What  a  change  from  the  old  tourist  days  to  the 
present.  For  if  any  people  have  felt  the  war 
seriously  and  worked  effectively,  they  come  from 
this,  the  land  of  Sir  Douglas  Haig. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  201 

Across  the  fertile  fields  of  Scotland,  the  train 
glided  smoothly  on.  One  does  not  wonder  that 
the  Scotchman  loves  his  heather-covered  land. 
The  verdure  is  matchless.  Alighting  at  Dalmery 
I  was  met  by  an  American  naval  officer  who 
escorted  me  down  the  long  hill  to  Queen's  Ferry. 
Overhead  were  the  sweeping  arches  of  the  great 
Tay  Bridge.  Hydroplanes  were  swooping  down. 
Everything  else  harked  back  to  the  past,  even  the 
old  stones  of  the  quay  were  mossed  with  the 
tides  of  centuries.  Here  it  was  that  Margaret, 
patron  saint  of  Scotland,  used  to  cross  with  the 
King  when  he  went  to  war. 

Now  we  are  off  for  the  Grand  Fleet!  Was  it 
true  that  my  dream  was  at  last  to  be  realized? 

When  so  many  glowing  tributes  have  been 
written  and  spoken  concerning  the  glory  of  Great 
Britain,  France,  America  and  Italy  on  the  fields 
of  battle,  when  the  press  is  full  of  the  stirring 
details  of  the  achievements  of  the  Allied  armies  on 
the  Flanders  front,  may  it  not  be  well  to  here  ask 
a  question?  Why  is  it  that  Germany  has  not 
succeeded  in  grinding  into  the  cratered  dust  the 
forces  of  the  Allied  armies?  Out  there  ahead  of 
me  in  a  great  battle  line,  seventy-six  miles  in 
length,  I  saw  the  answer — and  that  answer  is  the 
Grand  Fleet.    Even  if  the  great  push  had  reached 


202  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  channel  ports  and  Paris  had  been  taken, 
there  would  still  be  left  the  Grand  Fleet,  the  iron 
collar  around  the  neck  of  Germany  to  strangle  her 
and  drag  her  down  to  sure  defeat. 

Without  the  supreme  fleet  not  a  soldier  of 
Great  Britain,  France  or  America  would  be  stand- 
ing on  the  blood-soaked  fields  of  Flanders  today. 
It  is  to  this  long  line  of  sea  forces  with  its  stupend- 
ous combination  of  gun  power  and  speed  that 
credit  must  be  given  for  the  "containing"  of  the 
German  fleet  at  Kiel,  and  for  freedom  from  enemy 
raiders  on  the  seas. 

I  was  taken  directly  to  Captain  John  Hughes 
who  knows  how  to  command  a  battleship  to  the 
last  detail.  How  homelike  it  was  to  be  on  a 
United  States  battleship,  though  in  foreign  waters! 
At  luncheon,  I  sat  down  for  the  first  time  since 
leaving  America  to  a  real  beefsteak,  thick,  juicy 
and  smothered  in  onions.  Real  butter  and  white 
bread,  too!  A  Philippine  steward  "stood  by"  and 
encored  with  another  steak.  Just  at  that  moment, 
to  me,  at  least,  the  steak,  the  appetite  and  the 
Grand  Fleet  were  of  equal  proportions.  The  New 
York  is  the  flagship  of  Admiral  Rodman,  the  sixth 
division  of  the  Grand  Fleet,  merged  in  the  Grand 
Fleet,  yet  still  having  the  same  identity  as  when 
flagship  of  the  ninth  division  of  the  Atlantic  Fleet. 


Cest  la  Guerre— It  is  the  War  203 

Admiral  Rodman  is  one  of  the  real  sea  dogs  of 
the  Navy.  He  is  thoroughly  businesslike  in  the 
management  of  the  complicated  details  of  his  task. 

Once  inside  his  quarters,  there  was  the  atmos- 
phere of  home  and  business.  Books,  magazines 
and  papers  were  lying  on  the  table,  while  there 
were  maps  and  more  maps  everywhere.  The 
Admiral  has  not  left  the  ship  except  for  a  period 
of  four  hours  for  more  than  six  months.  With  a 
twinkle  in  his  eyes  he  said:  "We're  always  ready, 
and  all  are  working  together  with  a  will." 

Every  British  and  American  ship  is  primed  to  go 
into  action  at  the  pressing  of  a  button.  In  the 
flash  of  an  eye  the  engines  can  start,  the  battle 
line  formed  at  the  order  "proceed  to  sea." 

The  co-operation  of  British  and  American 
fleets  in  the  present  war  is  without  a  parallel  in 
history.  On  the  one  hand  the  great  British  Navy 
has  given  to  the  Americans  its  secret  codes,  ciphers, 
and  the  naval  tradition  of  centuries.  On  the  other, 
the  American  Navy  has  put  all  its  resources  at 
the  disposal  of  the  British.  Even  at  the  dinner 
table  there  was  evidence  of  the  new  comradeship 
of  the  seas.  The  two  fleets  have  been  co-ordi- 
nated and  consolidated  as  one.  Admiral  Sims  in 
inaugurating  this  policy  of  offering  our  navy 
unreservedly  to  the  British  fleet  forecasted  a  new 


204  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

world  policy  after  the  war.  All  national,  racial 
and  traditional  pride  is  laid  aside  in  the  one 
great  purpose  of  winning  the  war. 

Though  there  Were  fifteen  hundred  men  aboard 
the  battleship  New  York,  never  in  all  these 
months,  notwithstanding  the  limited  area  of  their 
movements,  was  there  a  dull  moment. 

The  ship  was  a  miniature  city  afloat.  The 
machine  and  repair  shops  constituted  an  industrial 
section.  Here  activities  were  keyed  to  war  pitch. 
Even  the  corner  grocery  was  there,  reminding  me 
of  "Beany  Brown's  emporium"  with  its  familiar 
odors,  of  edibles,  compassed  only  by  the  table  of 
contents  in  a  Sears-Roebuck  catalog.  Though 
all  essentials  are  amply  provided  for  in  the  mess, 
the  habit  of  shopping  and  indulging  individual 
taste  is  irresistible.  It  affords  a  change,  and 
gathers  change. 

And  here  was  the  drug  store,  the  bakery,  the 
cobbler  shop,  even  the  barber  shop  with  seven 
chairs  shooting  out  perfumed  customers,  with  the 
regularity  of  the  clock-tick. 

The  residential  section  consisted  of  hammocks, 
stowed  away  like  folding  beds,  snug  sleeping 
apartments.  The  officers'  quarters  were  the 
"houses  on  the  terrace."  Along  the  gangways 
were  sailor  lads  from  every  state  and  territory  in 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  205 

the  Union.  They  were  either  chatting,  studying, 
reading,  or,  yes,  mothers,  sprawled  at  full  length 
on  the  deck  with  all  the  luxurious  abandon  of 
care-free  boys  on  the  green  sward  of  a  playground. 
And,  yes,  fathers;  some  were  making  ready  for  a 
real  frolic  ashore  such  as  you  enjoyed  in  your  day. 

Strangely  enough,  sooner  or  later,  in  the  minor 
exigencies  of  ship-life,  every  man  finds,  in  ad- 
dition to  his  regular  duties,  opportunity  to  exer- 
cise the  peculiar  knack  with  which  he  is  gifted.  If 
any  one  of  the  five  pianolas,  or  numerous  grapho- 
phones,  which  are  going  most  of  the  time,  remind- 
ing one  of  a  Coney  Island  colony,  is  out  of  order, 
there  is  always  the  jack-of -all-trades  to  keep  the 
show  moving. 

It  was  field  day  when  I  was  aboard.  That  means 
cleaning  day.  Dirt  was  mercilessly  pursued  in 
every  nook  and  cranny.  Scrub  and  paint  brushes 
flourished.  From  hold  to  topmast,  she  was  a 
floating  "spotless  town."  Ah!  but  the  guns,  they 
shone  like  polished  mirrors.  Gunners  were  patting 
them  affectionately,  and  in  their  faces  I  could 
read  the  one  all-absorbing  wish:  "If  I  only  had 
a  chance!"    God  pity  the  German  fleet  if  they  do! 

A  British  Admiral  dropped  in  to  pay  his  respects. 
After  his  return,  in  a  note  he  paid  this  tribute 
to  the  battleship    New  York:    "May   I   express 


206  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

my  immense  admiration  for  the  condition  of  your 
ship.  I  never  saw  anything  to  touch  her  in  all  my 
twenty -five  years  at  sea.    She  is  a  picture." 

Shore  leave  means  a  round  of  the  "ancient  and 
honorable  game"  of  golf  in  its  native  heath.  Ad- 
miral and  seaman  alike  chase  the  pill.  But  the 
intricate  game  is  a  bit  too  slow  for  the  average 
seaman,  and  the  national  pastime  of  baseball 
threatens  even  the  traditional  sport  of  the  Scots. 
It  is  more  strenuous  and  makes  swifter  diversion 
with  the  brief  moments  of  shore  leave. 

Dinner  was  a  memorable  moment.  The  Admiral, 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  surrounded  by  his  staff 
of  both  British  and  American  officers,  was  like  a 
father  at  home  talking  with  his  boys.  The  doings 
of  the  day  were  gone  over,  especially  the  scouting 
operations  of  the  airplanes  in  the  North  Sea.  One 
thought  is  always  uppermost — the  moment!  What 
if  the  "moment"  to  get  under  way  should  come 
while  I  was  aboard?  No  such  luck!  I  arose  from 
that  table  with  a  new  sense  of  the  perfected  plans 
of  the  Admiralty  and  Admiral  Sims. 

Just  at  this  time  a  sheaf  of  "wireless"  was 
brought  in  and  I  had  opportunity  to  see  the 
cryptic  vernacular  of  an  intercepted  message  with 
its  flavor  of  mystery,  equal  to  a  stirring  chapter 
in  a  detective  story.    It  read: 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  207 

"Will  arrive  within  gunshot  at  1,100;  request 
permission  to  enter  harbour.    0810." 

The  wording  indicated  an  English  operator  for 
the  letter  U  appeared  in  harbor.  The  variance 
in  spelling  will  be  another  brigading  operation  in 
the  dictionaries. 

As  I  left  ship  for  launch,  I  could  not  resist 
saluting  in  unison  with  the  officers,  as  the  sailors 
stood  at  attention.  This  is  permissible  for  a 
civilian,  providing  it  is  accompanied  with  the 
familiar  "hello"  or  other  vocal  salutation. 

In  the  gathering  twilight,  the  Admiral's  launch 
began  its  bobbing  course  over  the  choppy  sea. 
I  stood  astern,  with  coat  tails  flying,  waving  fare- 
well to  the  good  ship  and  its  men.  Our  way  shaped 
through  the  lanes  of  the  Grand  Fleet.  In  the 
distance  was  the  great  Tay  Bridge.  As  in  a  pro- 
scenium box,  I  looked  out  on  the  greatest  naval 
scene  in  history.  A  ship  is  always  a  picture, 
whether  square-rigged  frigate  or  modern  dread- 
naught.  What  would  Nelson  and  Paul  Jones  have 
thought  of  this  Armada?  The  combined  naval 
achievements  of  all  the  history  of  two  great 
nations  were  here  united  in  a  common  cause. 
There  was  the  Queen  Elizabeth,  flagship  of  Admiral 
Beatty,  there  also,  the  Lion,  which  had  carried 
his  flag  into  the  battle  of  Jutland.     There  were 


208  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  hush  ships  looking  all  the  more  mysterious 
in  the  gathering  darkness.  The  dark  hulks  of 
an  endless  line  were  silhouetted  against  the  red 
horizon. 

Long  after  the  curtain  of  the  night  shut  out  the 
scene,  was  the  reassurance  that  here  was  repre- 
sented, not  only  the  bulwark  of  defense  which  had 
safeguarded  the  past,  but  carried  the  prophecy 
of  a  victorious  future. 


HON.  W.  G.  SHARPE 

American  Ambassador  to  France 


Copyright  by  Paul  Thompson 

HON.  WALTER  HINES  PAGE 

American  Ambassador  to  the  Court  of  St.  James 


XX 

WITH  THE  AMERICAN   DESTROYERS 
THE   DOOM  OF  THE   SUBMARINES 

OUEENSTOWN  is  strangely  linked  with 
the  memories  of  the  tragedy  of  the  Lusi- 
tania.  In  the  mirrored  waters  I  seemed  to 
see  the  forms  of  little  children  and  helpless  women, 
together  with  the  mangled  shapes  of  men — 
civilians  and  sailors  alike — as  they  tossed  on  the 
unresting  wave.  How  appropriate  that  here,  in 
this  cemetery  of  the  sea,  a  savior  of  hope  should 
be  born — prophetic  of  the  day  when  the  race  shall 
be  saved  from  an  assassin  foe.  No  wonder  I 
recalled  the  scene,  for  some  of  my  friends  were 
there — in  their  unfathomed  graves. 

The  doors  of  Queenstown  are  unlocked  only 
by  an  Admiralty  pass.  Here  the  destroyer  flo- 
tillas and  depth  bombs  have  come  to  sound  the 
death  knell  of  the  submarine.  At  Hollyhead 
Wharf,  it  was  necessary  to  secure  the  stamp  of 
the  alien  officer.  Amid  yawns  and  growls  were 
throngs    waiting    hours    after    midnight    for    the 

(209) 


210  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

"Irish  Mail."  Once  at  sea  there  was  a  rush 
for  the  dining  saloon  where  ham  and  meats 
could  be  secured.  War  rations  did  not  prevail 
in  Ireland.  Regulations  were  as  unpopular  as 
conscription. 

The  swift  little  steamer  gayly  zig-zagged  over 
the  Irish  Sea  that  night,  and  stretched  out  on 
seats  and  bunks  were  the  passengers  in  blissful 
forgetfulness  of  sleep.  The  early  morning  found 
us  at  Kingston — the  harbor  of  Dublin.  There 
was  a  real  emerald  hue  to  the  Irish  landscape  that 
morning  and  little  evidence  of  war.  Some  young 
lads  appeared  wearing  defiant  badges  inscribed 
"No  Conscription."  Dublin  was  seething  with 
Sinn  Feiners'  agitation.  Some  of  the  leaders  had 
been  arrested  the  night  previous,  charged  with 
participating  in  German  plots. 

Lord  French's  proclamation  to  win  the  dis- 
senting Irish  to  the  Allies'  cause  was  the  headline 
in  the  papers  and  the  talk  of  every  one  that 
morning. 

The  long  journey  from  Dublin  to  Queenstown 
gave  me  time  to  observe  travelers  in  Ireland. 
The  trains  move  slowly,  irregularly,  and  deliber- 
ately. Nearly  everyone  I  talked  with  spoke  of 
some  friend  in  America,  and  hours  whiled  away 
explaining  how  it  was  I  lived  in  Boston  and  didn't 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  211 

chance  to  know  "the  boy"  or  "friend"  living  in 
cities  a  thousand  miles  away. 

The  yellow  furze  hedges  were  never  more 
glorious  than  on  this  beautiful  May  day,  outlining 
as  they  did,  the  tiny  triangular  farms.  Soldiers 
in  khaki  were  given  tea  at  Limerick  Junction. 
Some  of  them  from  far-off  Australia,  New  Zealand, 
and  South  Africa,  were  on  leave  to  visit  relatives, 
many  of  whom  they  had  never  seen.  Cork  was 
thriving  with  war  activities.  The  long  list  of 
my  friends  in  America  who  hailed  from  Cork 
passed  in  review,  and  strangely  enough  my  naval 
friend  bobbed  up.  Queenstown  is  only  a  few 
miles  down  the  River  Lee,  and  is  counted  the 
jumping-off  place. 

The  harbor  was  dotted  with  destroyers,  moored 
in  groups  of  four  to  a  buoy,  like  dogs  on  a  leash. 
At  the  Naval  Wharf  was  the  welcome  sight  of 
American  sailors.  Captain  Pringle  was  aboard 
the  Melville,  one  of  two  which  serve  as  "mother 
ships"  for  the  destroyer  flotilla.  He  is  the  chief 
of  staff  of  Admiral  Sims'  destroyer  flotilla,  and  in 
command.  Here  again  was  an  exemplification  of 
the  cordial  co-ordination  of  American  and  British 
naval  officers  and  men.  The  supply  ships  are 
great  floating  machine  shops,  and  are  ready  for 
any  emergency.     The  first  story  told  me  was  of 


212  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

two  destroyers  which  had  met  accident.  One 
had  the  stern  blown  off  by  a  depth  bomb,  while 
the  other  had  its  bow  demolished  in  a  collision. 
The  two  vessels  were  towed  in.  The  conserved 
stern  of  one  was  joined  to  the  bow  of  the  other. 
The  names  were  hyphenated  and  by  matrimonic 
machinery  the  twain  were  one  henceforth. 

A  replica  in  miniature  of  the  torpedo  station  at 
Newport  has  been  erected.  Lieutenant  Moses  of 
Newport  is  here  in  person  and  in  charge.  Shark- 
like  torpedoes  are  tested  under  hydraulic  pressure, 
each  one  costing  $7,000  apiece.  "Expensive 
ammunition,"  I  remarked.  "Yes,"  said  a  sailor, 
"but  it  counts  when  opportunity  offers." 

Commander  Carpenter  of  the  Fanning,  who 
made  the  capture  of  a  submarine,  taught  me  the 
nautical  step,  and  I  was  able  to  trip  up  the  gang- 
way lightly,  this  time,  without  stumbling.  Wire- 
less naval  dispatches  came  in  thick  and  fast.  One 
of  these  reports  brought  the  news  of  a  certain  ship 
never  known  to  make  over  nine  knots.  "Chased 
by  a  submarine,"  it  read,  "making  eleven  knots." 

"Nothing  like  a  submarine  to  speed  'em  up," 
said  the  captain. 

Ashore  and  everywhere  the  quiver  of  the  chase 
animates  the  sailors.  They  were  all  eager  to  go 
to  sea  and  have  their  chance   at   the  subs.     It 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  213 

mattered  not  whether  they  were  under  a  British 
or  American  commander.  Their  one  desire  was  to 
get  'em.  Destroyers  returning  from  convoy  duty 
come  alongside  the  supply  ships  for  repairs  and 
supplies,  and  are  off  in  a  twinkling.  The  Broad- 
way base  for  the  destroyers  are  the  supply  ships 
Dixie  and  Melville,  where  men  work  and  bands 
play.  The  cabins  are  business  offices,  with  a  big 
B.  The  desks  of  the  yeomen  stenographers  and 
clerks  are  all  in  ship-shape,  many  working  long  after 
hours,  if  necessary,  to  get  a  ship  off.  They  never 
know  when  a  rush  of  work  is  coming,  and  supplies 
are  always  ready.  It  would  have  done  Admiral 
McGowan's  heart  good  to  have  heard  the  salvos 
of  praise  from  the  sailors  when  the  transports 
arrive.  They  pay  tribute  to  the  efficiency  of  the 
Bureau  of  Supplies  and  Accounts,  "Sanda  Court," 
at  Washington. 

The  destroyers  are  always  busy,  steaming  from 
five  to  seven  thousand  miles  a  month,  and  being 
sometimes  twenty-one  days  at  sea,  never  daunted 
by  wind  or  weather.  There  is  a  certain  longitude 
and  latitude  where  the  convoys  going  out  are 
taken  and  the  convoys  coming  in  are  met.  Officers 
insist  that  "a  monument  should  be  erected  at 
this  fixed  spot  in  the  motionless  sea"  after  the 
war. 


214  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

The  destroyers,  which  were  an  evolution  from 
the  torpedo  boat,  have  already  many  scalps 
dangling  from  their  sides.  These  clipper-like  crafts 
remind  one  of  greyhounds  ever  ready  for  the  chase. 

How  can  a  landsman  best  describe  his  feelings 
on  board  a  destroyer  at  sea?  He  hangs  on  with 
both  arms,  and  those  who  have  boasted  of  never 
knowing  the  ills  of  seasickness  are  ruthlessly 
floored.  It  was  planned  for  me  to  take  a  cruise 
of  four  days.  The  spectacle  of  seeing  myself 
growing  green  in  the  mirror  of  the  deep,  and  the 
experience  of  salt  water  splashed  into  my  soup, 
with  ocean  spray  for  pepper  and  salt  on  my  food, 
was  not  a  palatable  prospect. 

Captain  McCandless  of  the  Caldwell  was  con- 
siderate when  I  proved  that  at  least  I  had  one 
sea-leg.  These  crafts  are  a  long,  narrow  shell  of 
thin  steel,  exceeding  the  speed  of  an  ocean  liner 
and  equalling  that  of  an  automobile.  Everything 
is  stowed  away  snugly,  every  inch  of  space  being 
utilized. 

The  captain  and  crew  never  take  off  their  clothes 
during  a  cruise.  There  is  very  little  sleep  aboard. 
The  eagle  eyes  of  the  destroyers,  always  hunting 
and  watching,  are  the  protection  of  the  convoys. 
The  peculiar  excitement  on  board  appeals  to 
dauntless  American   sailors  keen  for  adventure. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  215 

As  each  new  ship  is  completed  in  the  United 
States,  a  crew  of  twenty-five  officers  and  men 
who  have  had  experience  at  the  Queenstown  base, 
are  detailed  to  bring  the  new  ship  over.  The 
ambition  of  young  naval  officers  is  to  command  a 
destroyer  and  get  just  one  chance  at  a  submarine. 
The  depth  bombs  are  carried  on  the  stern  of  a 
destroyer.  They  look  like  humble  and  plebeian 
galvanized  ash  cans.  They  are  timed  in  much  the 
same  fashion  as  the  old  teeter  board  works.  Once 
off,  the  depth  bomb  knows  neither  friend  nor  foe. 
The  ship  must  keep  moving  and  get  away  before 
it  explodes  or  the  stern  is  endangered.  On  the  aft 
deck  of  the  boat  are  howitzer  guns,  which  look  as 
harmless  as  a  joint  of  sewer  pipe,  though  capable 
of  throwing  depth  bombs  one  hundred  and  twenty 
feet  to  port  or  starboard.  The  explosive  sub- 
stance is  TNT.  The  explosion  of  the  bomb  is 
caused  by  the  pressure  of  water  at  a  certain  depth. 
When  one  of  these  bombs  explode,  stones  and  sea 
mud  from  the  bottom  of  the  channel  are  brought 
up  from  a  depth  of  two  hundred  feet  and  shot  into 
the  air  with  water  like  a  geyser.  This  gives  an 
idea  of  the  power  of  these  innocent-looking  cans. 
The  shock  from  one  of  these  explosions  is  felt  by 
ocean  liners  a  half  mile  distant,  causing  them  to 
shiver  from  bow  to  stern.    The  concussion  has  the 


216  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

intensified  sound  of  boys  crashing  two  stones 
together  under  water. 

In  the  fox  hunt  for  submarines,  two  destroyers 
go  out  abreast  and  begin  spiral  maneuvers,  one 
going  to  the  right  and  the  other  to  the  left,  each 
dropping  depth  bombs,  making  it  impossible  for 
a  submarine  to  live  in  the  patterned  area  covered. 
Submarines  must  keep  going  in  deep  water.  They 
cannot  stop  while  submerged  unless  the  water  is 
shallow,  and  then  they  lie  on  the  bottom. 

It  is  something  of  a  tussle  for  a  stout  man  to  go 
through  the  hatchway  of  a  submarine,  like  the 
"lemon  squeezer"  at  Lost  River  in  the  White 
Mountains.  When  submarines  were  constructed, 
two-hundred-pounders  were  not  considered.  Climb- 
ing down  the  pole  with  spiral  steps,  I  found  that 
my  legs  were  rather  too  thick  to  twine  themselves 
gracefully.  I  would  make  a  poor  modern  edition 
of  Jules  Verne's  "Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  under 
the  Sea." 

The  machinery  of  a  submarine  is  most  intricate. 
Here  were  the  tubes  where  the  torpedoes  were 
projected;  there  the  listening  devices,  while  a 
myriad  of  levers  and  countless  wheels  were  every- 
where. Never  shall  I  forget  the  uncanny  feeling 
when,  for  the  first  time,  I  looked  into  the  rubber- 
lined  tube  and  realized  it  was  a  periscope.     It 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  217 

was  like  looking  into  the  hood  of  a  reflex  camera. 
Ships  at  a  distance,  men  on  the  ships,  expressions 
on  their  faces,  even  to  the  bat  of  an  eyelash,  were 
clearly  outlined.  The  periscope  moves  up  and 
down  and  around  like  the  All-Seeing  Eye. 

The  submarine  is  now  being  used  in  the  chase 
against  the  submarine  on  the  Irish  coast.  Greatest 
caution  must  be  exercised  to  distinguish  British, 
American  and  German  submarines,  for  all  are 
working  in  the  same  zone.  A  system  of  signals 
has  been  devised  which  enables  friendly  submarines 
to  detect  not  only  each  other,  but  to  communicate 
with  the  destroyers  on  the  surface  of  the  sea. 

At  the  Naval  Men's  Club  at  Queenstown,  the 
first  establishment  of  its  kind,  British  and  American 
officers  and  sailors  fraternize  and  enjoy  hours  of 
leave  together.  The  friendly  odor  of  American 
ham  and  eggs  blends  with  British  mutton. 

This  clubhouse  is  located  on  the  sea  wall  and 
opens  hospitable  doors  for  all  sailors  on  shore 
leave  and  meets  the  need  for  rest  and  entertain- 
ment. Generous-hearted  Americans  in  London 
provided  this  club,  which  now  has  an  international 
fame.  An  old  gymnasium  has  been  converted  into 
an  Assembly  Hall  where  every  night  moving  pic- 
tures   and    other    entertainments   are   furnished. 

It  was  Saturday  evening  when  I   was  there. 


218  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

The  hall  was  filled  to  overflowing,  and  the  orchestra 
from  the  Melville  was  making  the  occasion  merry 
with  ragtime  and  patriotic  airs.  A  vaudeville 
performance  was  in  process,  consisting  of  stunts 
by  seamen  who  were  singers,  elocutionists,  lariat- 
throwers,  monologists,  and  band  soloists.  These 
seemed  equal  to  any  emergency.  Artists  and 
audience  created  a  free-for-all  atmosphere. 

While  enjoying  a  jolly  evening,  intermission 
approached.  My  joy  came  to  a  sudden  end! 
Captain  Pringle  commanded  me  to  "proceed  to 
the  stage"  and  make  a  speech.  A  scene  showing 
the  skyline  of  New  York  was  flashed  before  the 
footlights,  bringing  a  volley  of  applause  from  the 
boys,  who  broke  out  in  the  song  "Goodbye, 
Broadway . ' '  The  words  of  other  songs  were  thrown 
on  the  screen  and  a  regular  songfest  started. 

The  faces  of  the  sailors  in  that  auditorium  would 
have  made  a  reassuring  picture  to  the  fathers 
and  mothers  at  home.  The  boys  were  happy, 
self-reliant  and  manly. 

When  my  spiel  was  ended  and  they  tried  to  go 
on  with  the  show,  the  cheering  did  not  cease.  All 
over  the  hall  there  was  a  chorus,  "To  hell  with 
the  show,  get  the  guy  going  again."  They  did 
not  know  who  I  was,  but  they  knew  I  was  some- 
body from  home  and  who  had  seen  and  known 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  219 

the  boys  in  khaki.  When  tribute  was  paid  to  the 
American  soldiers  of  the  army  in  France  and  to 
Mother  Brittania  calling  the  lusty  sons  of  the 
West,  there  was  a  shout  that  shook  the  rafters. 

It  was  in  a  jaunting  car  that  Captain  Pringle 
took  me  to  pay  respects  to  Admiral  Bay  ley  at  the 
headquarters  on  the  hill,  which  commanded  a 
beautiful  outlook  of  the  harbor.  Why  a  jaunting 
car  was  ever  made,  I  do  not  know!  You  sit  side- 
wise  and  just  jolt.  Why  the  little  horse  did  not 
go  up  in  the  air  when  I  listed  to  the  left  I  cannot 
understand,  but  he  seemed  to  be  an  expert  in 
balancing  things.  Ireland  would  not  be  Ireland 
without  its  jaunting  car  and  its  joviality. 

As  I  entered  headquarters,  Admiral  Bayley, 
seated  at  his  desk  and  smoking  his  pipe,  was 
issuing  orders,  directing  the  movement  of  ships 
far  at  sea.  When  he  had  finished,  he  showed  me 
an  Englishman's  love  for  his  garden.  Even  while 
engaged  in  this  diversion,  dispatches  were  still 
coming  to  him.  His  orders,  issued  in  a  brusque 
manner,  were  simple  and  direct,  not  capable  of 
misunderstanding,  for  Admiral  Bayley  is  a  disci- 
plinarian. American  sailors  have  learned  to  love 
him,  for  he  is  as  just  as  he  is  severe. 

Wherever  you  stop  overnight,  you  must  report 
to  the  police  when  you  go  in  and  when  you  go  out. 


220  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Every  hotel  register  gives  an  account  of  those 
enrolled,  and  the  police  records  and  hotel  registers 
must  correspond.  Down  the  hill  is  the  constable's 
office,  and  to  it  I  must  go  if  I  wanted  to  leave. 
The  street  is  called  "Pack  of  Cards,"  the  houses 
on  one  side  looking  like  an  abandoned  poker  deck. 
The  constable's  office  was  in  a  barn,  one  flight  up, 
and  adorned  with  ancient  pistols,  to  reach  which 
you  had  to  go  through  the  barn  where  you  were 
expected  to  show  the  passport  picture  album 
of  yourself. 

"Mornin'  to  you.  You're  a  handsomer  man  than 
the  last  rogue  we  had,"  he  said  in  a  rich  Irish 
brogue. 

At  the  hotel,  before  leaving,  the  little  colleen 
with  black  hair  and  blue  eyes  presented  me  with 
some  post  cards.  When  I  offered  money  she 
refused,  saying: 

"Just  in  memory  of  a  boy  I  know  over  there." 

She  cautioned  me  not  to  send  any  showing 
Queenstown  Harbor,  "for  the  Admiralty,  you 
know,"  she  whispered,  "wouldn't  allow  it,"  mean- 
ing, of  course,  they  were  under  the  censor's  ban. 
When  in  Ireland  I  thought  of  my  many  good  Irish 
friends  overseas  and  on  a  rolling  launch  I  wrote 
some  of  them  a  postcard,  giving  their  family 
genealogy  insofar  as  I  could  fancy  it  from  the 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  221 

signs  over  the  shops.  In  obtaining  this  information 
I  found  my  own  tongue  served  me  well  in  Ireland. 

American  sailors  exercise  a  proper  diplomatic 
restraint  and  show  a  becoming  modesty  in  talking 
about  the  things  our  country  is  doing  in  the  war. 
In  Queenstown  civic  officials  and  civilians  told 
me  they  had  never  seen  any  action  on  the  part 
of  an  American  sailor  which  was  not  becoming 
a  gentleman  and  true  sailor. 

Driving  over  the  hills  from  Cork,  I  accepted 
the  invitation  of  the  American  naval  officers  to 
go  with  them  to  kiss  the  Blarney  Stone.  In  a 
jaunting  car,  two  on  a  side,  the  driver  "bechune" 
times  cracking  his  whip  and  regaling  us  with  tra- 
ditions, we  arrived  at  ancient  Cork.  In  the  dis- 
tance and  beyond  the  winding  River  Lee  loomed 
the  ruined  towers  of  Blarney  Castle. 

As  we  entered  the  charmed  precincts,  crossing 
a  clear  running  brook,  a  crippled  soldier  took  the 
shilling  of  admittance.  Under  the  trees  of  the 
park  the  young  people  of  Blarney  were  indulging 
in  a  real  Irish  dance.  Pipers  were  playing  the 
tune  and  the  dancers  whirled  round  and  round, 
hopping  as  in  a  schottische,  the  Limerick  waltz. 
On  we  passed  to  the  castle,  the  refrain  "Oh,  The 
Days  of  the  Kerry  Dance"  singing  itself  in  my 
mind.    Here  we  climbed  the  granite  stairway,  not 


222  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

only  worn  smooth  by  thousands  of  feet,  but  the 
sides  worn  by  the  hands  of  those  groping  their 
way  up  to  the  old  tower. 

In  an  old  baronial  dining  hall  a  giant  tree  was 
growing.  Reaching  the  parapet  of  the  castle,  the 
naval  officers  insisted  that  I  follow  them  in  kissing 
the  Blarney  Stone.  What  wonder  that  several 
coquettish  lasses  paused  to  see  the  fat  American 
tipped  upside  down  and  held  by  his  legs  while 
stretched  out  over  the  precipice  of  the  wall  as  he 
kissed  the  Blarney  Stone.  Apprehensively  look- 
ing down  several  hundred  feet  below,  I  wondered 
if  they  would  hold  me  fast,  but  I  gave  the  Blarney 
Stone  a  rousing  smack. 

With  the  Blarney  kiss  still  moist  on  my  lips, 
I  found  that  complimentary  phrases  dripped  like 
honey  dew  from  my  lips. 

Coming  down  from  Blarney  Castle,  we  stopped 
the  jaunting  car  to  look  at  the  crevices,  now  over- 
grown with  the  moss  and  vegetation  of  centuries. 
The  lads  and  lassies  had  deserted  the  shadow  of 
the  trees  for  the  luxury  of  the  baronial  hall,  and 
there  again  it  was  "on  with  the  dance."  As  I 
stood  watching  them,  one  of  the  young  naval 
officers  approached,  having  in  his  eyes  a  look  which 
indicated  that  he  had  made  a  discovery.  "You 
gay  deceiver,"  he  said,  pointing  a  finger  at  me, 


Cest  la  Guerre— It  is  the  War  2Z3 

"you  have  been  here  before.  We  know  now  why 
you  love  to  talk,  and  since  you  have  kissed  the 
Blarney  Stone  again,  come — make  us  a  speech." 

Then  from  the  balustrade,  in  a  deep  voice,  he 
called  to  the  people,  saying:  "Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, we  have  in  our  midst  a  distinguished  orator 
from  the  United  States  of  America." 

The  pipers  ceased  playing  and  the  dancers 
became  attentive.  In  their  eyes  was  an  appeal 
I  could  not  resist.  I  spoke  to  them  in  the  old 
banquet  hall,  giving  a  resume  of  our  American 
dances,  the  two-step,  fox-trot,  bunny  hug,  too 
much  mustard,  kitchen  sink  and  other  dances 
peculiar  to  American  life.  They  laughed  and 
roared. 

I  could  not  leave  them  without  a  serious  touch. 
I  told  them  that  in  the  constellation  of  stars  on 
the  service  flags  in  the  homes  of  America,  the  sons 
of  Erin  were  represented  in  the  great  fight  for  world 
democracy. 

On  my  return  to  Dublin  I  talked  with  some  of 
the  leaders  of  the  Sinn  Fein,  and  also  of  the 
Nationalists'  party.  I  heard  their  story.  As  I 
came  away  I  could  but  feel  that  antipathy  to 
Britain  had,  for  the  moment,  clouded  their  vision 
as  to  the  purpose  of  the  Allies,  and  blinded  them 
even  to  the  interests  of  Ireland,  and  in  questioning 


224  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  good  faith  and  purpose  of  America  in  the  war 
might  eventually  strike  at  the  root  of  sympathy 
of  one  of  her  best  friends. 

Stowed  away  among  the  snoring  soldiers  in  the 
channel  steamer  that  night,  I  lay  half  dreaming. 
With  the  vision  of  Queenstown — that  base  of 
humming  activity — correlated  and  devoted  to  the 
Allied  cause — I  could  not  conceive  of  the  rest  of 
Ireland,  especially  with  the  spirit  of  Redmond's 
son  and  the  valorous  Irish  who  had  already  fallen 
in  Flanders,  hesitating  to  disregard  all  other 
considerations  in  responding  unreservedly  to  the 
cause  of  free  peoples. 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

HON.  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 

American  Ambassador  to  Italy 


Hot  Comforts  for  the  Men  in  the  Trenches 

MISS  GLADYS  STOREY'S  FUND 

Fourth  Year.  Registered  under  the  WAR  CHARITIES  ACT 


Map  showing  the  war  area  over  which  the  Fund  has  extended  comfort  to  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  troops  since  1914,  including  Canadian,  Australian,  New  Zealand  and 
Newfoundland  contingents,  and  the  French  and  Belgian  soldiers  in  the  trenches. 


XXI 

LORD  LEVERHULME  AND  THE 
SIX-HOUR  DAY 

FOR  years  I  had  known  Lord  Leverhulme 
through  the  medium  of  friendly  corre- 
spondence. Our  letters  had  passed  back 
and  forth  between  England  and  America.  Ideas 
on  business  and  educational  problems  had  been 
exchanged,  and  yet  we  had  never  met.  I  dropped 
into  his  office  at  11  Haymarket,  London,  and  found 
the  sort  of  person  I  expected  to  meet — a  great 
business  leader  of  Great  Britain.  Lord  Lever- 
hulme is  a  rather  small  man,  with  pompadour,  iron- 
gray  hair,  keen  gray  eyes  and  an  irresistible  smile. 
The  query  in  both  of  our  minds  was,  "Well,  what 
do  you  think  of  me?"  It  was  answered  as  our  eyes 
met  and  the  usual  introductory  phrases  were 
unnecessary.  We  began  where  our  correspondence 
left  off. 

He  wears  the  same  kind  of  white  square  derby 
hat,  such  as  he  began  buying  as  a  young  man  from 
the  hatter  of  his  birthplace,  in  Bolton.     The  bag 

(22*) 


226  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

in  which  he  carries  his  carefully-sorted  letters  has 
been  his  traveling  companion  for  forty  years. 
Handle  after  handle  has  been  worn  off,  but  the 
portmanteau  remains. 

Five  minutes'  conversation  with  Lord  Lever- 
hulme  covers  a  wide  range  of  subjects.  To  him 
the  minutes  of  the  day  are  made  to  count,  whether 
given  to  social  or  business  engagements.  That 
afternoon  he  was  to  speak  at  Leighton  House  on 
Holland  Park  Road,  Kensington. 

This  fine  old  English  mansion  was  the  home  and 
studio  of  Lord  Leighton.  It  remains  as  he  left  it. 
Its  vast  art  collection  is  preserved  as  a  memorial 
to  the  artist  by  The  Leighton  House  Society,  and 
used  for  the  promotion  of  art,  music  and  literature. 

Modestly  ignoring  his  afternoon  address,  which 
was  the  only  feature  of  the  occasion,  Lord  Lever- 
hulme  said:  "I  think  you  will  at  least  find  the 
Leighton  House  interesting." 

At  Leighton  House  a  cultured  English  audience 
had  assembled  to  hear  Lord  Leverhulme  on 
"Present-Day  Ideals,  Personal  and  National."  A 
delightful  English  custom  was  the  aftermath,  when 
tea  was  served  and  a  discussion  followed  which 
would  have  graced  the  Victorian  Age.  It  was  a 
touch  of  English  life  I  had  not  seen,  blending  the 
charm  of  the  social  and  literary  life  of  the  old  world. 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  %%7 

Over  the  teacups  I  met  Miss  Gladys  Storey, 
who  originated  the  fund  to  provide  "Hot  Com- 
forts for  the  Men  in  the  Trenches."  These 
"comforts"  include  Bovril,  condensed  soups  and 
other  dainties  not  found  in  the  regular  rations. 
The  letters  she  has  received  from  Field  Marshal 
Sir  Douglas  Haig,  Lord  French,  General  Sir  Henry 
Rawlinson  and  French  commanders  indicate  the 
value  and  appreciation  of  the  work.  Miss  Storey 
is  a  daughter  of  a  famous  artist,  who  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Royal  Academy.  She  was  on  the  stage 
prior  to  the  war,  but  now  gives  her  whole  time  to 
this  work. 

On  the  following  day  an  afternoon  train  took 
us  to  Cheshire,  where  we  motored  to  Thornton 
Manor.  The  drive,  through  the  ancient  city  of 
Chester,  and  over  roads  once  trod  by  the  legions 
of  Caesar,  was  replete  with  interest.  The  quiet 
dignity  of  English  country  life  was  in  strange 
contrast  to  the  war-wrecked  scenes  of  a  few 
days  previous.  I  sensed  the  reason  why  every 
Englishman  has  a  vision  of  a  country  home.  The 
British  Isles  have  become  a  veritable  garden  spot, 
nursed  by  centuries  of  care-taking.  Even  in  the 
darkness  I  felt  intuitively  the  presence  of  flowers 
along  the  wayside. 

The   big   open    fireplace    was   sending  out  its 


228  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

cheery  light  as  we  sat  and  talked  the  evening 
hours  away.  Then  a  bit  of  Lancashire  cheese  and 
to  bed,  with  sweet  dreams  in  the  Manor  House. 

In  the  morning,  after  a  breakfast  of  shrimps, 
bareheaded,  but  fully  gloved — English  custom — 
we  enjoyed  a  walk  in  the  garden,  still  briskly  dis- 
cussing random  subjects,  ranging  from  ancient 
philosophy  or  latest  detail  of  war,  to  modern 
methods  of  living. 

One  of  Lord  Leverhulme's  hobbies  is  the  hours 
of  labor.  "I  believe  in  only  six  hours'  labor,"  he 
said.  "I  am  an  advocate  of  a  six-hour  day. 
Shorter  hours  of  labor,  running  two  shifts  of  six 
and  a  half  hours  each,  with  a  half  hour  for  meals, 
is  the  ideal  working  day.  It  will  meet  the  one 
great  problem  after  the  war.  Decrease  the  hours 
of  labor,  increase  production  and  extend  markets 
— that  is  the  business  world's  problem." 

"That  seems  paradoxical,"  I  ventured. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  responded.  "By  decreasing 
the  hours  of  labor  you  relieve  fatigue  of  the 
workers  and  can  speed  up  machinery.  Two  shifts 
in  daylight,  bringing  twelve  hours  of  production 
without  overtime,  will  increase  production  without 
increased  overhead  expense.  This  increased  pro- 
duction naturally  brings  about  an  expansion  of 
markets." 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  229 

There  is  keenness  in  Lord  Leverhulme's  logic. 
As  one  of  the  great  employers  of  labor  in  England, 
his  ideas  carry  weight. 

We  paused  to  view  the  vast  stretch  of  green 
running  out  to  the  Welsh  Mountains,  then  on  to 
the  River  Dee  and  down  to  the  sea. 

"Six  hours  a  day,"  he  continued  as  we  resumed 
our  walk,  "would  mean  that  young  men  and  girls 
could  work  in  shops,  offices  and  factories,  and  at 
the  same  time  continue  their  course  of  education. 
It  would  do  away  with  night  schools.  Education 
would  go  hand  in  hand  with  work.  It  would  not 
induce  idleness  outside  the  six  working  hours;  it 
would  give  opportunity  to  grow  and  develop.  It 
would  mean  more  time  for  military  training  and 
drill.  It  would  take  away  the  dull  gray  monotony 
of  labor  and  do  away  with  over-strain — the  big 
waster  of  efficiency." 

"Are  you  limiting  all  labor  to  six  hours  a  day?" 
I  ventured. 

"Yes,  six  hours  a  day  at  employment,  leaving 
ten  to  twelve  hours  for  education  and  recreation, 
to  change  the  trend  of  thought." 

Not  far  away  were  the  chimneys  of  Port  Sun- 
light, where,  in  1886,  Lord  Leverhulme,  then 
William  Hesketh  Lever,  began  to  carry  out  his 
vision    of    ideal    conditions    for    workmen.      The 


230  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

library,  auditorium,  plant  and  the  surroundings 
indicate  a  crystallization  of  ideas  and  practical 
plans,  for  Lord  Leverhulme  is  first  of  all  a  builder. 
He  makes  the  waste  places  blossom  with  beauty 
and  productivity.  It  was  my  privilege  here  to 
address  three  thousand  girls  at  luncheon,  and 
never  was  there  a  brighter  or  more  wide-awake 
audience.  It  did  my  heart  good  just  to  talk  to 
these  earnest,  sincere  English  lasses,  who  have 
been  swept  by  the  war  into  the  tide  of  industry. 
Their  spirit  was  matchless. 

At  the  meeting  of  the  staff  and  managers  of  the 
Port  Sunlight  Works,  Lord  Leverhulme  presided. 
I  could  understand  then  the  reason  for  his  busi- 
ness success  which  stands  out  so  conspicuously  in 
the  annals  of  Britain's  industrial  development. 
He  thinks,  feels  and  acts.  Problems  are  as  clear 
before  his  vision  as  before  a  blaze  of  light.  His 
mind  works  with  mathematical  precision.  One  of 
his  employees  told  of  his  drawing  offhand  with  a 
lead  pencil  a  diagram  of  land  in  almost  exact  pro- 
portions, as  subsequently  proved  by  the  surveyed 
measurements. 

Despite  his  high  honors  as  member  of  the  House 
of  Lords,  member  of  Parliament  and  high  sher- 
iff of  Lancaster,  Lord  Leverhulme  remains  an 
exponent  of   intensified   democracy.     He  enjoys 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  231 

everything  he  does,  particularly  his  avocation. 
Even  his  hobby  for  collecting  furniture  of  different 
periods,  books  and  paintings,  seems  the  utilization 
of  any  slack  rope  in  his  daily  activities. 

He  loves  a  joke  or  good  story,  and  delights  in  the 
American  variety.  He  has  traveled  widely,  and 
his  business  experience  has  extended  to  all  parts 
of  the  world.  He  has  a  warm  spot  in  his  heart  for 
the  United  States,  where  he  has  large  business 
interests.  It  was  while  on  a  voyage  to  America  in 
1890  that  he  planned  the  "Port  Sunlight"  of  today 
and  he  came  back  with  his  plans  consummated 
to  every  detail. 

As  a  leader  in  the  industrial  life  of  Great  Britain, 
Lord  Leverhulme  has  fearlessly  looked  to  the 
future  of  capital  and  labor.  "Following  the  war, 
industry  will  be  strained  to  meet  the  demand 
for  manufactured  goods,  and  now  is  the  time  to 
get  ready  for  the  inevitable  adjustment  that  must 
come  with  the  demobilizing  of  large  armies." 

He  has  little  patience  with  a  nation  that  will 
decry  or  underestimate  its  own  natural  advan- 
tages, and  he  points  out  that  a  peace  cabinet 
composed  of  expert  business  men  is  as  necessary 
as  a  war  cabinet. 

Lord  Leverhulme  is  an  educational  enthusiast. 

"We  must  push  education  to  the  limit,"  said 


232  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

this  sterling  little  man  who  had  struggled  for  an 
education.  "We  cannot  depend  on  evening  classes 
and  expect  overworked  and  wearied  brains  to  be 
attracted  to  educational  advantages." 

Port  Sunlight  has  been  built  up  by  making 
employees  co-partners.  This  gives  a  mutual  inter- 
est in  the  work  and  eliminates  the  benumbing 
effect  of  a  wage  system.  Lord  Leverhulme  does 
not  think  any  workman  should  be  sentenced  to 
toil  for  wages  without  direct  interest  in  profits 
earned. 

"And  I  have  not  much  patience  with  the  Ca' 
Canny  shirkers  and  slackers,  either,"  said  he. 
"Piece  work  has  been  damned  because  some  em- 
ployers, after  having  ascertained  the  speed  limits 
of  the  efficient  workmen,  have  cut  down  the  piece 
rates  proportionately,  contrary  to  the  very  system 
on  which  an  employer  builds  his  business.  I 
believe  in  applying  the  good  old  rule — whatever 
we  put  into  business  or  life  we  can  take  out 
and  no  more.  The  employer  should  apply  the 
same  principles  to  his  workers  that  he  applies  to 
building  up  his  own  business." 

"American  trade  unionism  has  disavowed  the 
co-partnership  idea,"  I  suggested. 

"Naturally,"  he  quickly  returned,  "it  is  due  to 
the  fear  that  co-partnership  might  result  in  their 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  233 

elimination.  But  they  will  see  the  advantage  in 
due  time." 

"I  do  not  believe,"  he  continued,  "in  the  logic 
of  throwing  the  lion  a  small  bit  of  meat  to  palliate 
his  appetite.  He  will  eat  the  small  piece  and 
attack  the  human  sacrifice  in  the  Coliseum  as 
well.  Too  little  meat  leaves  the  Christian  martyr 
in  as  much  peril  as  before  the  lion  is  fed. 

"Profits  will  vary  in  different  institutions,  and 
it  will  mean  some  jobs  will  pay  better  than  others. 
It  has  always  been  so.  Only  this  much  is  sure, 
the  lazy  loafer,  be  he  employer  or  employee,  who 
has  not  earned  will  not  enjoy  the  fruits  of  profit. 

"I  do  not  believe  in  a  pay  envelope,"  said  this 
man,  with  startling  surprise.  "It  is  the  most 
unthrifty  way  of  paying  wages  that  could  be  de- 
vised, as  well  as  a  great  waste  of  time.  To  my 
way  of  thinking,  wages  should  be  represented 
merely  by  a  credit  to  the  employees'  own  account 
at  a  bank  of  his  selection.  The  effect  of  this  would 
be  that  he  could  draw  from  the  bank  from  time  to 
time  what  was  required  for  living  expenses,  and 
would  leave  in  the  bank  the  surplus  as  savings  from 
week  to  week.  The  difference  lies  in  carrying  loose 
cash  in  the  pocket  and  trying  to  save  it  and  not 
having  the  money  in  hand  when  the  temptation 
comes  for  some  little  extravagance.    Thrift  is  the 


234  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

natural  corollary  to  increased  wages,  for  the  more 
one  accumulates,  the  deeper  and  more  firmly 
planted  is  the  impulse  to  save." 

Speaking  of  the  industrial  conditions  of  England, 
he  said: 

"We  never  know  what  can  be  done  until  we  do 
it,  for  with  five  million  men  drawn  for  service  of 
navy  and  army  of  Great  Britain,  we  still  have  been 
able  to  keep  pace  with  the  enormous  demands  of 
the  hour.  This  is  because  the  spirit  of  labor  has 
been  appealed  to.  Back  of  it  all  is  the  patriotic 
motive  which  only  proves  you  have  but  to  touch 
the  right  chord  in  the  human  heart  to  meet  with 
some  whole-hearted  response." 

At  his  London  house,  The  Hill,  at  Hampstead 
Heath,  Lord  Leverhulme  exemplifies  his  love  of 
art  with  rare  paintings  and  bric-a-brac  collections 
that  would  seem  in  themselves  to  involve  a  life 
study. 

Lord  Leverhulme's  career  furnishes  a  note  of 
inspiration  to  thrill  the  heart  of  the  English  youth 
ambitious  to  succeed.  He  was  born  in  Bolton  in 
Lancashire  sixty-seven  years  ago,  educated  at 
the  Bolton  Church  Institute,  and  was  apprenticed 
as  a  grocery  boy  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  Here  his 
ambition  to  get  on  in  the  world  was  first  mani- 
ested.     He  made  it  his  business  to  know  every 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  235 

customer  personally  and  to  serve  him  a  little 
better  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to. 

Using  brains  and  tireless  industry,  he  mounted 
steadily.  His  business  success  has  been  one  of  the 
commercial  romances  of  England.  When  the  sand 
dune  peninsula  of  land  opposite  Liverpool,  lying 
between  the  Mersey  and  the  River  Dee,  blossomed 
from  marshland  into  Port  Sunlight,  England  saw  a 
new  creation  in  its  great  industrial  life.  This 
marvelous  industrial  city  has  been  visited  by  many 
of  the  world's  most  distinguished  people — the 
King  and  Queen  of  England,  King  Albert  of 
Belgium,  and  hosts  of  others.  At  Poet's  Square  in 
Port  Sunlight  is  a  replica  of  Shakespeare's  cottage 
at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

As  chairman  of  the  Board  of  Lever  Brothers, 
Lord  Leverhulme  has  laid  his  impress  on  world 
trade.  At  home  he  is  beloved  by  all  his  associates. 
He  served  as  high  sheriff  of  Lancashire  in  1917, 
and  later  was  elected  to  Parliament  from  Wirral,  a 
division  of  Cheshire. 

He  began  life  as  William  Hesketh  Lever,  was 
knighted  as  Sir  William  Lever,  and  later  was  raised 
to  the  peerage  as  first  baron  of  Bolton-le-Morrs, 
county  Palatine  of  Lancashire. 

An  only  son,  Hon.  William  Hulme  Lever,  is 
associated  with  him  in  the  business.    His  father, 


236  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

appreciating  the  importance  of  early  training  in 
public  speaking,  fitted  the  playroom  of  his  boyhood 
with  a  rostrum,  and  the  young  lad  was  taught  daily 
to  think  on  his  feet,  and  today  he  is  a  graceful 
speaker  and  presiding  officer,  trained  to  carry  on 
the  great  work  of  Lord  Leverhulme. 

Lord  Leverhulme's  title  is  formed  by  combining 
his  own  name  with  that  of  his  wife,  whose  maiden 
name  was  Hulme.  A  tender  tribute  to  the  one 
who  shared  in  the  struggles  of  his  early  career  and 
whose  death  was  the  one  great  sorrow  of  his  life. 

His  work  in  restoring  Storoway  Castle  on  the 
Island  of  Lewis;  in  reforesting  the  historic  lake 
district  where  Wordsworth  lived  when  he  wrote 
his  ''Ode  to  Immortality";  his  providing  convales- 
cent retreats  for  wounded  soldiers — making  his 
own  home  and  manor  house  a  hospital — all  this 
indicates  a  great  sympathetic  heart  acting  with  a 
great  business  brain  to  live  up  to  the  family 
motto,  "I  scorn  to  fear  or  change." 

Our  acquaintance  continues  as  it  began.  The 
letters  of  Lord  Leverhulme  are  coming  to  me  as 
aforetime,  bringing  the  joys  of  friendship, and  giving 
a  higher  understanding  of  a  great  soul  imbued  with 
constructive  ideals  in  inspiring  others  with  the 
glory  of  toil. 


XXII 

AMERICAN  AMBASSADORS  IN  WARRING 
EUROPE 

TRAVELERS  abroad  are  more  likely  to  meet 
ambassadors  and  consuls  in  war  than  in  peace 
times.  The  word  "American,"  as  we  use  it, 
sometimes  annoys  our  Canadian  and  South  Ameri- 
can cousins,  but  we  have  been  Americans  from  the 
time  of  Benjamin  Franklin's  appearance  in  France. 
Our  use  of  the  word  is  more  traditional  than 
intentional. 

Visiting  embassies  in  the  warring  countries  made 
me  more  appreciative  of  our  own  State  Depart- 
ment and  its  extensive  functions  at  home  and 
abroad.  Responsibilities  have  multiplied  and 
there  is  an  intensified  efficiency  to  meet  war  con- 
ditions. It  is  a  welcome  sight  to  a  wayfaring 
American  to  see  the  Stars  and  Stripes  waving 
over  buildings  in  foreign  lands,  as  familiarly  as 
in  our  own.  For  the  first  time  in  history,  Old 
Glory  has  floated  from  the  Tower  of  London  and 
the  House  of  Parliament.     Not  only  on  historic 

(237) 


238  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

buildings  in  England,  but  in  all  the  Allied  countries 
it  has  been  unfurled. 

The  ambassadors  have  not  only  manifested  a 
high  degree  of  statesmanship,  but  have  carried 
out  in  their  leadership  the  spirit  and  purpose  of 
America. 

When  I  was  in  Italy  the  popularity  of  President 
Wilson  was  most  apparent.  All  his  messages  and 
every  minute  reference  to  the  war  were  eagerly 
read  and  fervently  admired.  His  words  were 
accepted  as  the  voice  of  America.  The  action  of 
the  Italian  government  in  making  Woodrow  Wilson 
an  adopted  son  of  Italy  on  July  4th,  1918,  reflected 
his  popular  and  growing  favor.  This  action  was 
foreshadowed  when,  at  a  monster  mass  meeting 
at  the  Coliseum  Senator  Marconi,  the  inventor 
of  the  wireless,  flashed  over  the  seas  the  following 
message : 

"President  Wilson, 

"White  House,  Washington : 
"The  people  of  Rome  unite  today  at  the  Coliseum 
to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  entrance  into  the 
war  of  the  United  States.  On  this  auspicious  day  is 
accorded  to  me  the  honor  of  becoming  the  interpreter 
of  this  message,  transmitted  through  limitless  space, 
the  sentiments  of  sincere  friendship  and  close  solidar- 
ity that  join  the  people  of  Italy  with  those  of  the 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  239 

United  States,  and  express  to  you  our  liveliest  admir- 
ation for  your  inspiring  initiative  and  for  those  same 
principles  which  made  Rome,  and  renew  our  faith  in 
the  triumph  of  right  and  civilization." 

The  placards  announcing  this  meeting  ran:  "In 
the  presence  of  eternal  Rome."  It  continued: 
"History  will  record  for  the  redeemed  generations 
to  come  the  disinterested  action  of  America.  Keep 
in  your  minds  the  sacred,  powerful  motives  which 
induced  President  Wilson  to  declare  war  for  a 
Society  of  Nations  which  will  give  to  all  the  right 
of  free  existence  and  impose  upon  all  respect  for 
the  liberty  of  others.  Then  come,  citizens,  to- 
morrow with  fervent  spirits  and  grateful  hearts 
to  the  Coliseum  ..." 

Color  was  lent  to  the  occasion  by  soldiers  who 
came  from  picked  regiments  from  the  fighting  line 
along  the  Piave.  Children  were  there,  many  in 
uniform — the  little  Garibaldians  in  red  shirts; 
green-hatted  orphans  of  soldiers  from  the  Red 
Cross  Home  at  Monte  Porzio;  women  in  nurses' 
uniforms;  distinguished  men  from  Italy,  Great 
Britain,  France  and  America,  together  with  all 
ranks  of  people  from  Rome. 

Among  American  authors  is  a  name  familiar 
in  literary  circles  all  over  the  world,  and  as  Am- 
bassador to  Italy  Thomas  Nelson  Page  is  adding 


240  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

to  his  illustrious  career.  The  Italian  people  hold 
him  in  peculiar  respect  and  affection.  Gold  letters 
over  the  door  indicate  the  quarters  of  the  Embassy. 
Here  the  outer  rooms  were  filled  with  Americans 
having  all  sorts  of  problems  and  personal  troubles. 
These  were  the  days  of  passports.  The  business 
organization  investigated  the  case  of  each  one 
thoroughly.  The  findings  of  Mr.  Page  were  as 
complete  and  carefully  expressed  as  in  a  proof  for 
the  press. 

Long  before  I  reached  the  Embassy,  in  the  cafes, 
I  heard  from  the  lips  of  the  Italians  warm  praise  for 
the  American  Ambassador.  He  is  more  than  a 
representative  of  his  government;  he  is  a  sort  of 
father  confessor  to  all  American  strangers.  His 
office  has  the  atmosphere  of  a  study,  papers  and 
documents  being  handled  in  a  regular  routine. 

There  was  a  wealth  of  Southern  hospitality  in  his 
greeting.  His  acquaintance  with  and  knowledge  of 
the  Italian  leaders  had  fitted  him  for  the  work  he 
has  accomplished  in  Italy.  Not  a  detail  of  Italian 
affairs  on  which  he  did  not  seem  to  be  informed. 

He  speaks  Italian  fluently  and  has  readily 
adjusted  himself  to  Italian  ways.  Thomas  Nelson 
Page  closely  resembles  William  Dean  Howells,  his 
literary  contemporary.  He  is  thoroughly  at  home 
in  a  discussion  of  the  literature  and  art  of  Italy. 


Copyright,  Harris  &  Ewing 

KING  ALBERT  OF  BELGIUM 

This  is  the  latest  photograph  of  the  Belgians'  hero-king 


17 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

HIS  .MAJESTY,  GEORGE  V  OF  ENGLAND 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  241 

At  the  Coliseum,  where  the  American  flag  was 
unfurled  with  the  Italian  flag,  the  Ambassador, 
speaking  for  the  American  people,  gave  a  thrilling 
address.  With  the  ancient  ruins  filled  with  the 
great  concourse  of  people,  it  was  a  scene  not  soon 
to  be  forgotten. 

As  the  ringing  words  of  the  Ambassador  winged 
their  way  through  that  crumbling  structure, 
speaking  words  of  hope  for  the  Italian  people,  it 
was  like  the  voice  of  prophecy  for  the  future  of 
democracy  spoken  on  the  site  of  one  of  the  most 
ancient  republics. 

In  war  work  activities,  Ambassador  Page  and 
his  accomplished  wife  have  been  active  leaders. 
Mrs.  Page  is  personally  in  charge  of  a  workshop 
where  the  prqfugi  from  Italy  are  given  material 
with  which  to  make  slippers,  soles  and  all  out  of 
pieces  of  cloth  sewed  together.  Materials  for 
clothing  and  surgical  dressings  are  also  provided. 
The  workshop  I  visited  is  located  on  the  top  floor 
of  an  old  palace  near  the  ancient  four  fountains 
which,  like  Tennyson's  "Brook,"  flow  on  forever. 
The  work  has  a  very  systematic  handling.  A  care- 
ful tabulation  is  kept  each  day  of  the  articles  made, 
the  cost,  and  where  shipped. 

They  wished  me  to  talk  with  the  refugees,  and 
many  were  the  pathetic  stories  I  heard  from  the 


242  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

women  now  separated  from  their  children  and 
hoping  for  the  time  when  they  might  be  reunited. 
Their  answers  to  my  questions  were  given  in 
all  the  simplicity  of  the  Italian  language,  and 
in  a  most  naive  fashion.  When  I  asked  one 
woman  from  Venice  if  she  had  any  children,  she 
replied  "Nearly." 

In  his  soft  Virginia  drawl,  the  Ambassador 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  tell  a  good  negro 
story  now  and  then  to  illustrate  a  point.  He  had 
been  in  close  touch  with  all  the  Red  Cross  and  other 
activities  in  Italy;  in  fact,  nearly  all  the  American 
Consuls  hereabout  feel  that  an  hour  of  advice  or  a 
visit  to  Thomas  Nelson  Page  is  an  inspiration 
which  keys  them  up  to  the  work  in  hand. 

/"^LOSE  back  of  the  battle  lines,  the  United 
^^^  States  Embassy  at  Paris  is  a  center  of  war 
activities.  Scarcely  an  American  in  Paris  these 
days  who  does  not  look  on  the  kind  and  smiling 
face  of  Ambassador  W.  G.  Sharpe.  He  is  a  plump, 
good-natured  business  man  with  a  stubby  mus- 
tache, four-in-hand  tie,  and  wears  a  business  cuta- 
way suit.  He  seems  to  be  everywhere  and  at  all 
places.  He  remains  American  in  every  action  and 
word  and  has  won  the  hearts  of  the  French  people. 
At  the  chancery  or  door  of  the  Embassy  an 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  248 

American  soldier  stands  with  a  smile  of  greeting. 
Unarmed,  his  uniform  alone  represents  his  au- 
thority. In  the  Ambassador's  office,  over  the 
mantel,  is  a  flag  of  the  State  of  Massachusetts 
with  its  stirring  and  warlike  inscription,  "By  the 
sword  we  seek  peace." 

The  reception  room  of  the  Embassy  was  supplied 
with  papers  from  America,  and  it  pleased  me  to 
find  the  clerk  was  from  Worcester.  Visitors 
are  here  received  and  appointments  come  thick 
and  fast.  There  was  an  interesting  delegation  that 
morning  representing  a  musical  society,  who  desired 
Mr.  Sharpe  to  preside  at  a  public  entertainment 
of  twelve  distinct  types  of  Parisians.  At  the  flat- 
top desk  the  Ambassador  was  dictating  to  two 
stenographers,  one  in  French  and  the  other  in 
English.    Both  languages  are  familiar  to  him. 

When  he  finished  his  work  we  walked  down  the 
boulevard.  The  internationality  of  Paris  impresses 
one  who  walks  through  the  streets  and  observes 
the  names.  It  is  like  a  lesson  in  geography. 
Nearly  every  country  and  large  city  in  the  world 
is  honored  by  the  names  of  Paris  streets;  in  fact, 
the  boulevard  changes  its  name  every  few  squares, 
as  if  to  make  the  honors  go  around. 

With  the  Ambassador  I  attended  a  luncheon  in 
Circle  Industriale,  the  home  of  Baron  Rothschild, 


244  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

in  the  center  of  Paris,  given  over  for  a  club-house 
for  British  and  American  officers.  Everything 
stops  in  Paris  from  twelve  to  two,  and  after  the 
luncheon  the  members  retire  to  another  room  or 
to  a  courtyard  to  drink  coffee.  It  is  over  coffee 
that  the  conversation  of  the  dejeuner  or  luncheon 
comes  to  a  focus.  Here,  among  other  distinguished 
people  I  again  met  Viviani,  fixing  his  colored  cuffs 
— evidence  of  war  times.  He  had  the  same  win- 
some smile,  his  sparse  hair  parted  in  the  middle, 
and  his  eyes  danced  as  he  recalled  our  previous 
meeting  in  America. 

"Of  all  the  experiences  that  have  come  to  me, 
the  speaking  tour  through  America  was  the  best," 
he  said.  "You  know  how  it  is — speaking  to  audi- 
ences who  do  not  know  your  language — after  your 
experiences  at  Rome,  don't  you?"  he  said  quizzi- 
cally. "Sometimes  it  seems  like  talking  into  a 
barrel,  but  when  you  catch  the  eye  of  an  auditor 
here  and  there  who  does  understand  the  language, 
it  gives  you  courage  to  go  on."  I  agreed  with  him. 
Viviani  is  of  Corsican  descent  and  is  considered 
the  greatest  orator  in  France.  There  is  something 
Napoleonic  in  his  double-fist  gestures. 

A  liberal  portion  of  Smithfield  ham  at  a  dinner 
at  the  Ambassador's  house  that  evening  proved 
him  to  be  a  true  host.     Under  the  spell,  I  forgot 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  245 

every  other  viand  of  the  French  chef  and  just  ate 
ham. 

Mrs.  Sharpe  and  the  two  sons  and  daughter 
are  very  popular  with  the  French.  The  son,  Mr. 
George  Sharpe,  as  Secretary  Particular,  is  of  great 
assistance  to  his  father.  All  speak  French  like 
natives. 

Ambassador  Sharpe  arrived  in  Paris  the  day 
the  Germans  were  nearest  to  the  city.  He  began 
his  official  duties  on  the  day  when  blackest  skies 
overhung  France.  From  his  hotel  window  over- 
looking the  Place  de  la  Concorde  he  saw  Galleni's 
troops  rushed  out  of  Paris  in  taxis,  some  of  the 
soldiers  without  uniform,  to  fight  at  the  battle  of 
the  Marne. 

In  these  stirring  days  the  Embassy  was  the 
haven  of  excited  Americans,  and  the  skill  with 
which  he  handled  the  perplexing  problems  of  the 
hour  enthroned  him  in  the  immediate  confidence 
of  the  Americans  and  French.    . 

Mr.  Sharpe  was  born  at  Elyria,  Ohio.  He  was 
a  manufacturer  and  former  member  of  Congress 
before  he  was  made  Ambassador.  He  had  visited 
Paris  many  times,  but  little  dreamed  of  the  honor 
that  was  to  come  to  him  in  later  years.  Whether 
at  informal  luncheons  or  at  a  state  function,  he 
appears  to  good  advantage.    Seldom  a  day  passes 


246  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

that  distinguished  people  from  all  over  the  world 
are  not  in  personal  touch  with  him. 

At  the  luxurious  palace  of  the  Bourbons,  with 
its  blaze  of  red  curtains  and  regal  splendor,  in 
company  with  the  Ambassador,  I  visited  the 
Foreign  Secretary,  or  Minister  of  Strangers.  It 
was  here  I  met  Minister  Pinchon,  a  genial,  polished 
gentleman,  who  as  foreign  minister  knows  how  to 
greet  the  strangers  within  and  beyond  the  gates. 

Few  Ambassadors  enjoy  the  confidence  of  a 
country  like  Mr.  Sharpe.  Keeping  in  touch  with 
every  phase  of  the  war  and  diplomacy,  he  has 
helped  to  cement  the  friendship  of  United  States 
and  France. 

He  dedicated  the  monument  at  Verdun,  and  has 
been  accorded  other  high  honors  by  the  French 
people.  For  the  first  time  an  American  ambassador 
in  Paris  is  Dean  of  the  Diplomatic  Corps,  having 
served  longer  than  the  Ambassador  of  any  other 
nation  in  Paris  at  the  present  time.  When  this 
distinction  came  to  him,  Mr.  Sharpe  was  the  recipi- 
ent of  hearty  congratulations  from  Allied  and 
neutral  nations. 

AS  a  wag  in   London   remarked   while  I   was 

waiting  in  the  American  Embassy  at  Gros- 

venor  Square,  there  are  two  bright  "Pages"  in  the 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  it  the  War  247 

record  of  American  diplomacy  during  the  war — 
one  is  Thomas  Nelson  Page  in  Rome,  the  other 
Walter  Hines  Page  in  London,  editor  of  the 
World's  Work,  a  conspicuous  figure  in  international 
affairs,  and  who,  as  Ambassador  to  the  Court 
of  St.  James,  has  ably  met  the  responsibilities 
of  perhaps  the  most  important  ambassadorial 
post. 

Some  Americans  in  London  still  think  of  the 
Embassy  as  located  at  the  old  palace  of  St.  James, 
whereas  the  American  Ambassador  has  his  head- 
quarters at  Grosvenor  Square,  although  enjoying 
the  title  "to  the  Court  of  St.  James,"  where  the 
court  functions  are  held,  and  where  the  gay  king, 
Charles  II,  once  lived. 

In  the  large  waiting  room  are  files  of  newspapers. 
Among  the  complicated  questions  he  has  to  meet, 
a  good  example  is  that  of  an  American  who  wished 
to  know  how  he  could  avoid  paying  an  income  tax 
on  the  same  money  in  England  and  the  United 
States.  The  routine  details  are  first  sifted  by 
clerks,  then  the  matter  is  taken  to  the  second  floor, 
where  Ambassador  Page  sits  as  Judge  Advocate. 
The  rooms  have  all  the  evidences  of  the  Ambassa- 
dor's literary  tastes  in  keeping  with  the  traditions 
of  James  Russell  Lowell  and  John  Hay.  On  the 
walls  are  portraits  of  all  the  representatives  to  the 


248  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Court  of  St.  James.  They  were  called  "Ministers 
to  England"  up  to  the  time  of  Robert  T.  Lincoln, 
son  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  who  facetiously  inscribed 
on  his  photo  in  leaving,  "The  Last  Minister." 
After  that  the  post  was  raised  to  the  rank  of 
Ambassador. 

Ambassador  Page  looks  much  as  he  did  when  I 
saw  him  as  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  Boston. 
Even  his  spectacles  were  at  the  same  angle,  and 
he  has  an  eye  for  diplomatic  business,  the  same 
as  he  had  for  a  good  manuscript.  He  handles  men 
as  he  handled  authors — good  and  bad.  The  first 
suggestion  he  made  was  that  I  visit  the  Grand 
Fleet  and  Queenstown  Base,  confirming  the  sugges- 
tion of  Admiral  Sims.  It  is  evident  that  American 
activities  abroad  are  co-ordinated. 

When  Colonel  Whitman's  regiment  paraded  in 
London,  Ambassador  Page  stood  with  King  George, 
and  each  soldier  received  personally  a  fac-simile 
letter  from  the  King  at  the  suggestion  of  Mr. 
Page. 

He  lives  in  the  country,  where,  in  these  strenuous 
days,  he  may  find  quietness  and  rest.  The  Embassy 
post  office  is  one  of  the  popular  places  in  London 
and  when  the  mail  arrives,  Americans  line  up  in 
the  hall  to  receive  what  is  sent  in  care  of  the 
Embassy.     In  the  diplomatic  pouch  papers  are 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  249 

carried  these  days  which  will  have  an  international 
import  in  all  the  ages  to  come. 

Mr.  Page's  secretary,  Mr.  Shucraft,  hails  from 
Kansas  City,  and  while  I  was  there  left  for 
America  after  a  few  hours'  notice  on  a  special 
mission. 

On  the  desk  of  the  Ambassador  is  a  memoranda 
which  resembles  the  days  of  assignment  in  a  news- 
paper office.  An  interesting  speaker,  as  well  as 
a  graceful  writer,  Ambassador  Page  is  in  great 
demand,  and  his  appearance  at  the  American- 
Luncheon  Club  with  the  Premier  was  an  occasion 
of  interest  to  Americans  sojourning  in  England. 

One  of  his  greatest  triumphs  has  been  in  the 
direction  of  the  various  Missions  which  have 
visited  Europe.  Particularly  is  this  true  of  his 
assistance  to  the  Labor  Mission,  bringing  the 
leaders  of  Great  Britain  and  America  into  fellow- 
ship and  securing  an  audience  with  the  King 
and  Queen.  "I  feel  like  a  perpetual  reception 
committee,"  he  said. 

During  the  days  preceding  the  declaration  of 
war  by  America,  Ambassador  Page  faced  a  situa- 
tion in  England  calling  for  almost  genius  of  diplom- 
acy and  patience.  He  reflected  most  ably  the 
thought  of  America  as  expressed  by  President 
Wilson,  and  in  every  act  has  proven  himself  to  be  a 


250  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

thorough  American.  The  result  of  his  ambassador- 
ship will  mark  closer  relations  between  England 
and  America. 

PRAYER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

Found  in  the  pocket  of  a  British  Colonel  who  was  killed  in  action  in  France 

Father  of  all,  Helper  of  the  free,  we  pray  with  anxious 
hearts  for  all  who  fight  on  sea  and  land  and  in  the  air  to 
guard  our  homes  and  liberty.  Make  clear  the  vision  of  our 
leaders  and  their  counsels  wise. 

Into  Thy  care  our  ships  and  seamen  we  commend;  guard 
them  from  chance-sown  mines  and  all  the  danger  of  this 
war  at  sea,  and  as  of  old  give  them  the  victory. 

To  men  on  watch  give  vigilance,  to  those  below  calm 
sleep.  Make  strong  our  soldiers'  hearts  and  brace  their 
nerves  against  the  bursting  shrapnel  and  the  unseen  fire 
that  lays  the  next  man  low. 

In  pity  blind  them  from  the  sight  of  fallen  comrades  left 
upon  the  field. 

May  Christ  Himself  in  Paradise  receive  the  souls  of  those 
who  pass  through  death. 

Let  not  our  soldiers  ever  doubt  that  they  shall  overcome 
the  forces  of  that  King  who  "seeks  to  wade  through  slaugh- 
ter to  a  throne  and  shut  the  gate  of  mercy  on  mankind." 

O  God  of  love  and  pity,  have  compassion  on  the  wounded, 
make  bearable  their  pains  or  send  unconsciousness. 

To  surgeons  and  dressers,  give  strength  that  knows  no 
failing  and  skill  that  suffers  not  from  desperate  haste. 

To  tired  men  give  time  to  rest. 

Pity  the  poor  beasts  of  service,  who  suffer  for  man's 
wrong. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  251 

For  us  at  home,  let  not  that  open  shame  be  ours,  that  we 
forget  to  ease  the  sufferings  of  the  near  and  dear  of  brave 
men  in  the  fighting  line. 

O  Father,  may  this  war  be  mankind's  last  appeal  to  force. 
Grant  from  the  stricken  earth,  sown  with  Thy  dead,  an 
everlasting  flower  of  peace  shall  spring,  and  all  Thy  world 
become  a  garden  where  the  flower  of  Christ  shall  grow. 

And  this  we  beg  for  our  dear  Elder  Brother's  sake,  who 
gave  Himself  for  those  He  loved,  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord. 
Amen. — Buffalo  Commercial. 


XXIII 

AMONG  THE  WORKERS  BEHIND  THE 
LINES 

AMONG  the  many  and  varied  war  activities 
y\  behind  the  lines,  which  serve  as  rest  and 
recreation  centers  for  the  boys,  one  gets 
a  different  picture  of  the  great  war.  The  comrade- 
ship between  the  soldiers  of  Canada  and  the 
United  States  on  the  soil  of  France  is  strong. 
The  universal  tributes  to  the  splendid  work  of 
the  Canadian  hospitals  were  good  to  hear.  The 
recitals  of  the  daring  and  dashing  qualities  of 
the  boys  from  over  the  border,  brought  a  sense 
of  kinship. 

"Fearless  devils,  those  Maple  Leaf  lads,"  said 
one  French  commander  to  me.  "I  saw  them  when 
they  returned  from  Vimy  Ridge.  They  had  the 
bronzed  cheeks  and  steady  eyes  of  seasoned 
veterans." 

Their  language,  manners  and  tastes  make 
them  seem  closer  to  the  Yankee  troops.  Many 
from  the  States    were    in   the   Canadian  Army, 

(252) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  253 

and  Canadians  in  the  United  States  Army  made 
the  bonds  even  closer.  The  Canadian  khaki 
resembles  the  British. 

In  the  hospitals  the  Canadian  nurses  have  won 
particular  distinction.  A  Nova  Scotia  nurse 
went  out  with  the  Harvard  unit,  and  served  a 
year  in  Canadian  and  British  hospitals.  She  only 
desired  the  hard  cases.  "There's  real  victory  in 
working  to  win  back  a  life."  Nurses  take  pride 
in  their  cases,  referring  to  them  as  "my  boys." 
Soldier  life,  after  all,  has  its  compensations. 

I  also  met  and  talked  with  the  soldiers  from 
New  Zealand.  This  little  colony,  fighters  to  the 
core,  has  a  record  of  contributing  its  full  quota 
of  one  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  troops  at 
the  first  call.  They  talk  through  their  noses,  like 
Americans,  but  cling  tenaciously  to  their  English 
accent.  They  were  the  troops  farthest  away  from 
home — four  thousand  miles — and  yet  as  closely  in 
touch  with  the  great  purposes  of  the  war  as  their 
Allied  comrades. 

People  wonder  what  the  boys  are  thinking 
about.  There  is  not  a  soldier  among  the  millions 
enrolled  who  cannot  tell  you  definitely  why  he  is 
there.  It  is  not  only  a  matter  of  sentiment,  but 
a  realization  that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to 
render  service  that  will  make  his  home  secure 


254  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

for  all  future  time.  Each  soldier  has  his  own 
vision  of  the  future,  and  when  he  may  return. 

Another  picturesque  soldier  in  France  is  the 
Australian,  his  hat  jauntily  turned  up  on  one  side. 
The  insignia  is  a  "sunburst,"  but  that  would  not 
be  needed  to  distinguish  them.  The  burly  boys 
from  the  Bush  with  their  relentless  energy  make 
them  seem  like  Americans  at  a  distance.  Australia 
did  not  adopt  conscription,  yet  since  she  has 
more  than  filled  her  quota,  it  was  felt  to  be 
unnecessary. 

It  was  a  treat  to  talk  to  our  own  strong,  virile 
young  American  soldiers.  Where  was  the  soldier 
wearing  khaki  who  was  not  prouder  of  it  than  of 
any  broadcloth  suit  he  ever  wore?  He  showed  it  in 
his  manner.  Where  is  the  silk  hat  that  can  rival 
the  Stetson  of  the  service?  The  canvas  leggings 
are  discarded  in  France  for  winding  puttees. 

"One  thing  you  learn  in  the  army,"  said  one 
of  the  boys  with  whom  I  talked,  "is  to  remember. 
If  you  don't  remember  a  thing,  off  goes  your 
block,  for  there  is  no  excuse  when  a  man  forgets 
what  he  is  told." 

When  one  goes  to  an  officer  to  ask  for  a  privilege, 
the  officer  says:  "You  are  in  the  army  now." 
Realizing  this,  the  boy  is  content,  for  no  distinction 
excels  that  of  being  in  the  army. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  %55 

One  virtue  in  the  life  of  a  soldier  is  the  great 
outdoors.  Close  to  nature,  whether  it  be  in  the 
mud  of  the  trenches  or  the  dust  of  the  roads,  the 
open  has  air  worked  wonders  in  producing  strong 
constitutions. 

About  the  hardest  thing  to  combat  is  loneliness 
and  homesickness.  One  of  the  lads  told  me  a 
pathetic  story  of  his  pal.  They  were  in  the  trenches 
and  his  buddy,  Jim,  was  dispirited.  He  tried  to 
cheer  him  up,  but  mail  after  mail  arrived  with  no 
letter  for  Jim.     He  grew  disconsolate. 

"Everyone  seems  to  have  forgotten  me,  even 
my  own  mother.     To  hell  with  everything." 

They  attempted  to  cheer  him,  but  to  no  avail. 
Just  before  starting  out  for  a  raid  to  kidnap  a  few 
Boche  that  night,  he  said: 

"Boys,  I  think  this  is  my  last  trip  with  you." 

Again  they  tried  to  brace  him.  In  the  light  of 
a  lantern  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
mother. 

In  No  Man's  Land,  still  wrapped  in  the  early 
morning  mist,  the  little  band  of  raiders  were  dis- 
covered. There  was  a  volley  from  the  machine 
guns  of  the  enemy.  Jim  had  fallen.  That  night 
when  his  companions  returned  to  camp,  a  de- 
layed mail  was  distributed.  Jim's  name  was 
called  twice.    Two  postals  had  come  from  his  home, 


256  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

but  too  late.  On  one  was  the  sentence:  "We 
were  too  busy  to  write  before." 

The  one  thing  the  boys  crave  more  than  any- 
thing else  is  letters  from  home.  The  next  best 
thing  is  the  home  paper,  for  in  the  reveries  of 
camp  life  they  constantly  have  visions  of  the  old 
home  and  the  dear  ones.  To  see  them  seize  the 
home  papers  and  familiar  American  magazines 
does  one's  heart  good.  Not  in  the  excitement  of 
the  firing  line,  but  in  hours  of  rest  loneliness  comes. 

In  some  places  I  saw  Red  Cross  girls  driving 
the  trucks.  When  women  drivers  reach  a  certain 
efficiency  they  are  permitted  to  wear  a  belt.  Such 
insignia  "over  there"  means  more  than  silk  and 
satin — it  means  service. 

Now  and  then  I  came  across  a  Wellesley, 
Vassar,  Bryn  Mawr  or  Smith  College  unit,  proud 
of  its  opportunity. 

To  find  the  Salvation  Army  lassies  in  the  Sal- 
vation Army  cabins  giving  out  doughnuts  to  the 
boys  was  a  real  home  touch.  Thousands  of  soldiers 
are  served  each  day  as  they  come  from  the  trenches. 
The  food  is  served  at  cost,  but  if  the  soldier  has 
no  money  he  gets  it  just  the  same.  Salvation 
Army  officials  told  me  these  debts  of  honor  seldom 
remain  unpaid.  I  heard  the  tributes  the  boys 
paid   to   the   Mclntyre   girls   of   Mount   Vernon, 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

PRESIDENT  POINCARE  OF  FRANCE 


Undi  rwood  &  Underwood 

VICTOR  EMMANUEL,  KING  OF  ITALY 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  257 

New  York,  who,  under  fire,  distributed  pies, 
doughnuts  and  cakes,  refusing  to  desert  their  post 
so  long  as  they  could  be  of  service.  Yankee 
doughnuts  capture  the  boys.  In  one  large  ware- 
house the  lassies  were  washing  clothes  for  the 
boys,  and  when  dry  they  would  mend  them  like 
so  many  mothers.  Here  was  a  mountain  of  shoes, 
German,  French,  all  kinds  picked  up,  being 
repaired  for  the  soldiers.    Nothing  is  wasted. 

A  familiar  sight,  as  American  troops  march 
through  the  villages,  is  to  see  the  children  run  out 
to  greet  them  as  "big  brothers." 

The  colored  troops  from  the  States  were  in  a 
rollicking  mood.  They  seemed  the  most  carefree 
of  them  all.  There  was  never  a  moment  when  they 
were  not  enjoying  themselves,  whether  stopping 
for  a  boxing  bout  on  the  way  or  just  having  im- 
provised minstrel  shows.  The  humor  among  them 
has  caught  the  fancy  of  the  French  newspaper 
writers. 

At  another  place  I  saw  the  great  camouflage 
drying  sheds,  where  mats  for  artillery  covers  were 
being  made  like  awnings  for  porches.  French 
peasant  women  were  cutting  raffia-grass,  for  which 
they  were  paid  one  dollar  a  day.  The  burlap  of 
these  strange  blankets  of  disguise  is  laid  on  ten 
layers  thick  and  painted  green  like  the  grass.    As 


258  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  workers  filled  in  the  designs  arranged  by  the 
artists,  it  all  reminded  me  of  a  gobelin  tapestry 
workroom. 

The  one  thing  the  American  soldier  exhibits  with 
the  greatest  degree  of  pride  is  the  picture  which 
he  has  had  taken  of  himself  and  of  his  captured 
German  prisoner.  It  is  shown  with  the  degree 
of  enthusiasm  of  a  trophy  after  a  bear  hunt.  I 
met  many  of  the  chaplains  and  their  work  at  the 
front  is  inspiring.  There  was  Chaplain  Smith, 
who  is  now  at  Rheims.  Here,  also,  I  talked  with 
Chaplain  Danker  of  Worcester,  Massachusetts, 
who  has  since  died  of  his  wounds,  and  for  whom  a 
public  square  has  been  named  in  his  native  city; 
and  Chaplain  Duval  of  the  Knights  of  Columbus. 
It  is  difficult  to  tell  the  chaplains  of  one  denomina- 
tion from  another,  as  they  are  all  dressed  in 
khaki.  Major  Fay,  secretary  to  Cardinal  Gibbons, 
has  been  made  a  prelate  by  the  Pope  in  recognition 
of  his  work,  and  wears  his  new  honor  becomingly 
in  his  regimentals. 

y.  m.  c.  A.  WORK 

One  is  not  long  in  France,  especially  near  the 
war  zone,  without  becoming  familiar  with  the 
red  triangle  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  which  has  erected 
505   huts,   where   the   soldiers   pass   their   leisure 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  259 

time  in  games  and  reading.  The  physical  and 
moral  welfare  of  soldiers  is  being  well  cared  for  by 
this  organization.  I  found  boys  reading,  always 
reading,  and  the  different  tastes  in  books  was  not- 
able. One  young  curly-headed  fellow  was  search- 
ing everywhere  for  books  on  psychology.  He  said 
to  me: 

"You  know  we  can  increase  efficiency  if  we 
understand  psychology  and  develop  telepathy." 

"And  how  do  you  expect  to  use  telepathy  after 
you  get  it?"  I  asked. 

"It's  a  good  thing  to  know  what  a  German  has 
in  his  mind  when  you  are  hidden  behind  the  trench 
line,"  was  his  laughing  response. 

In  another  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut  I  found  the  boys 
cultivating  flowers,  and  the  expert  on  horticulture 
was  telling  them  the  difference  between  a  French 
and  an  American  dandelion.  In  one  aviation 
camp  the  horticulturist  had  surrounded  the  onion 
bed  with  a  most  beautiful  fringe  of  roses,  enhanc- 
ing the  lowly  vegetable  far  beyond  its  usual 
station. 

At  the  Montaine  Y.  M.  C.  A.  canteen  on  the 
Champs  Elysees,  an  old  palace  built  by  the  last 
Napoleon  for  Migne,  his  financial  minister,  and 
amid  handsome  furnishings  turned  over  to  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.,  I  found  a  retreat  in  which  to  talk  after 


260  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

wrestling  with  my  bad  French.  Here  the  boys 
gather  for  good  times  and  comforts,  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  home  living  and  perhaps  something  to 
eat  that  smacks  like  "mother's  home  cooking." 
There  were  real  pies,  "holed"  doughnuts,  canned 
corn  and  things  unknown  in  the  triumphs  of  the 
French  chefs,  and  longed  for  by  our  American 
boys.  The  waitresses  are  all  volunteers,  American 
girls,  who  know  how  to  create  a  home  atmosphere 
and  give  a  social  aspect  to  the  lingering  moments 
over  dessert.  In  the  smoking  room  or  billiard 
room  the  lads  seemed  to  forget  that  they  were 
away  from  home,  for  the  old  palace  glowed  with 
the  spirit  of  an  American  hostelry.  The  throngs 
gathered  after  supper  in  one  of  the  large  rooms 
where  a  program  of  music  and  entertainment  was 
furnished.  The  boys  enjoyed  it  hugely,  and  well 
they  might,  for  they  were  given  a  concert  that 
would  do  honor  to  any  salon  musicale.  There 
were  golden-voiced  singers  from  the  Opera  Com- 
ique;  a  pianist,  who  was  the  prize  pupil  of  the 
veteran  Saint-Saens.  The  program  concluded 
with  a  message  from  the  folks  at  home,  and  it 
was  my  good  fortune  to  deliver  a  tribute  to  the 
flag.  Their  encore,  three  cheers  and  a  "tiger,"  too, 
by  these  lusty  boys  was  a  most  thrilling  moment 
to  me,  and  when,  dim-eyed,  I  asked  "What  is 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  261 

your  message  to  the  folks  back  home?"  they 
replied  as  one: 

"We'll  stick  to  the  finish." 

I  could  not  leave  without  a  further  word.  "Are 
you  all  as  happy  and  contented  as  you  look?" 

There  came  a  chorus,  in  the  new  Franco- Anglo 
language,  "Om',  oui — you  bet  your  life." 

I  was  never  so  proud  of  the  unconquerable 
American  spirit  as  when  I  saw  it  glowing  in  their 
faces! 

The  large  signs  "Quiet"  on  the  walls  of  some  of 
the  headquarters  indicated  that  the  flowing  French 
and  twangy  English  chatter  of  the  American  and 
French  girls  was  too  much.  There  was  also  a 
sign  "Save  the  paper,"  and  waste  baskets  yawned 
emptily.  Used  envelopes  served  as  memorandum 
paper — every  "scrap  of  paper"  was  sacred  in  the 
activities  of  the  war,  as  distinguished  from  the 
haughty  Teuton  phrase,  "only  a  scrap  of  paper." 

The  American  soldiers  are  not  allowed  to  remain 
lonesome  if  good  books  will  help  them  to  pass  the 
time.  In  every  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut,  tent  and  canteen, 
in  every  Salvation  Army  cabin,  in  every  Knights 
of  Columbus  building,  in  every  Red  Cross  hos- 
pital, in  every  club  where  soldiers  of  the  A.  E.  F. 
assemble,  are  simple  placards  announcing  the 
"War  Service  Library,  provided  by  the  People 


262  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

of  the  United  States  through  The  American  Library- 
Association."  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  books 
are  already  on  the  improvised  book  shelves,  and 
each  reader  is  his  own  librarian.  A  red  and  black 
card  sign  in  fac-simile  by  the  Commander-in-chief 
is  on  the  wall : 

These  books  Come  to  us  Overseas  from  Home. 

To  Read  them  is  a  Privilege. 

To  Return  them  Promptly,  Unabused,  a  Duty. 

John  J.  Pershing 

The  collection  of  books  in  each  library  ranged 
from  fifty  to  five  hundred  volumes,  all  of  them 
good  American  books  of  all  sorts,  from  the  red- 
blooded  Western  stories  to  the  latest  scientific 
treatise  on  aviation  or  other  branches  of  military 
service. 

Attired  in  familiar  khaki,  with  "A.  L.  A."  on 
his  shoulder,  Mr.  Burton  E.  Stevenson,  the 
European  representative  of  the  American  Library 
Association,  is  doing  efficient  work.  In  many  of 
the  larger  cantonments  at  home,  the  A.  L.  A. 
erected  its  own  buildings  as  central  libraries  and 
used  the  other  recreational  buildings  in  the  camp 
as  branches.  In  France  they  make  use  of  every 
nook  and  corner  to  give  the  soldiers  easy  access  to 
the  books.    The  nation-wide  campaign  in  America 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  263 

to  secure  books  for  the  use  of  the  A.  E.  F.  in  France 
brought  the  astounding  total  of  over  three  million 
volumes,  which  were  collected,  prepared  for  issue 
with  a  label,  book-card  and  pocket  by  American 
"libraries,  and  sent  on  to  France.  All  of  the  books 
are  shipped  in  special  A.  L.  A.  cases,  holding  about 
sixty  books  each.  Three  of  these  cases,  stacked 
on  top  of  each  other,  form  a  six-shelf  bookcase. 
In  these  units  they  are  easily  moved  about  from 
place  to  place. 

At  the  request  of  General  Pershing,  the  War 
Department  transports  fifty  tons  of  these  books 
every  month  for  the  men  overseas.  This  means 
approximately  one  hundred  thousand  volumes 
and  does  not  include  books  being  sent  across  on 
transports  in  care  of  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  Red  Cross  and 
other  organizations.  The  books  received  through 
public  donation  consist  largely  of  fiction.  The 
War  Department  made  up  for  the  deficiency  of 
technical  works  by  purchasing  over  three  hundred 
thousand  special  reference  books,  with  the  view 
of  their  being  of  direct  value  to  the  education  of 
our  men. 

Eagle  Hut,  in  London,  is  a  central  place,  not 
only  for  Americans,  but  for  the  British  as  well. 
There  is  a  splendid  co-operation  between  both. 
It  is  here  that  the  American  orators  try  their 


264  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

wings,  and  it  suits  the  English  and  the  boys  as 
well. 

Perhaps  the  most  popular  song  here  is  one 
written  by  an  American,  Zoe  Elliott,  of  Man- 
chester, N.  H.,  and  whose  poems  were  first  printed 
in  the  National  Magazine.  Any  day  one  can  hear 
his  inspiring  song,  "It's  a  Long,  Long  Trail?" 

At  the  group  meetings  the  boys  call  for  the 
songs  they  love  most.  And  among  the  popular 
numbers  are:  "Carry  Me  Back  to  old  Virginny," 
"My  Old  Kentucky  Home,"  "On  the  Banks  of 
the  Wabash,"  "Illinois,"  "California,  I  Love  You." 
And,  strangely  enough,  the  favorite  song  of  the 
Australians  is  "My  Little  Grey  Home  in  the 
West." 

Y.  W.  C.  A.  WORK 

I  had  opportunity  to  see  the  good  being  done 
for  the  women  munition  workers  of  France  by  the 
American  Y.  W.  C.  A.  When  I  visited  their  head- 
quarters in  a  building  near  the  large  munition 
factories  at  Lyon,  I  met  Miss  Anderson,  in  charge, 
holding  a  meeting  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  The 
platform  was  a  bower  of  flowers,  surrounding  a 
piano,  and  other  decorations  to  give  the  home- 
touch. 

Luncheon  is  served  every  day  and  meetings 
to  cement  the  bonds  of  friendship.     The  French 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  265 

women  seem  especially  appreciative  of  what  the 
Americans  do  for  them.  Miss  Anderson  insisted 
that  I  make  an  address.  I  spoke  in  English  and 
it  was  translated  into  French.  It  was  a  novel 
experience  to  try  to  say  something  gallant  and 
chivalrous  and  then  wait  for  it  to  explode  through 
the  translator.  Before  I  could  gather  my  thoughts 
I  had  a  wave  of  the  hand  and  had  to  say  some- 
thing else.  The  few  little  pet  French  phrases  that 
I  attempted  to  use  seemed  to  please  them  more 
than  a  real  joke. 

This  is  the  work  in  which  Mrs.  Cashman,  Mrs. 
Coleman  du  Pont  and  many  of  the  ladies  who  had 
been  fellow-passengers  on  the  Espagne  are  greatly 
interested,  and  is  of  importance  to  the  women 
workers  of  France  and  to  the  children  as  well. 
It  is  getting  close  to  the  homes. 

THE  ROCKEFELLER  FOUNDATION 

With  mortality  records  showing  death  from 
consumption  increasing  three  hundred  per  cent 
among  the  civilian  population  of  Paris,  and  also 
in  other  portions  of  France,  it  was  not  surprising 
to  meet  Dr.  George  E.  Vincent,  president  of  the 
Rockefeller  Foundation,  on  the  soil  of  France, 
giving  his  personal,  vital  energy  to  the  work. 

While  the  Rockefeller  Foundation  is  world-wide 


266  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

in  its  scope,  the  work  in  France  has  been  intensi- 
fied. The  spirit  of  the  Rockefeller  Foundation, 
as  explained  by  Dr.  Vincent,  was  not  one  of  com- 
plaisant patronage.  They  found  much  to  admire 
in  French  tuberculosis  sanatoria,  dispensaries  and 
methods,  and  the  purpose  was  to  combine  this 
work  with  the  French  authorities,  as  the  American 
Army  and  Navy  were  brigaded  with  the  Allies. 
An  active  working  agreement  was  made  with  the 
Red  Cross,  and  the  first  experiment  was  made  in 
the  Department  of  Eure-et-Loire,  southwest  of 
Paris,  which  was  selected  for  special  anti-tuber- 
culosis demonstration  by  the  Commission.  In 
every  one  of  the  areas  a  dispensary  was  established 
with  modern  equipment  and  a  trained  staff.  The 
people  were  taught  the  best  ways  and  methods  of 
fighting  tuberculosis.  Printed  matter  prepared 
by  French  writers  and  illustrated  by  French  artists 
is  widely  distributed.  Motor  trucks  are  equipped 
to  generate  current  for  projection  apparatus, 
in  showing  educational  slides.  In  every  way  effort 
is  put  forth  to  direct  the  thoughts  of  the  people 
toward  stamping  out  tuberculosis. 

When  I  saw  sitting  outside  of  the  Rockefeller 
Foundation  dispensary  a  frail  figure  of  a  girl  with 
shining  eyes,  it  recalled  the  story  of  "Camille." 
Her  cheeks  had   the  unmistakable  glow  of  con- 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  267 

sumption,  and  she  was  there  to  receive  treatment 
and  to  get  advice  of  the  expert  physician.  It  was 
felt  there  was  little  hope.  Her  white  face,  enhanced 
by  black  crepe,  revealed  her  only  wish: 

"If  I  could  only  live  until  Jean  comes  back." 

It  was  a  love  romance  I  saw  at  a  glance.  An 
elderly  French  officer  arrived  and  recognized  her. 
It  was  Jean's  father.  I  did  not  understand  the 
language,  but  actions  spoke  aloud.  The  father, 
at  the  behest  of  his  boy  at  the  front,  was  looking 
for  the  fiancee  with  the  blessing  he  had  withheld. 

Although  dry  and  undemonstrative  in  its  facts 
and  figures,  scientific  and  exacting  in  its  analysis  of 
things,  there  is  a  halo  of  life  and  death  in  the  fight 
which  the  Foundation  is  making  in  France. 

The  spread  of  the  disease  has  already  been 
checked  to  an  almost  unbelievable  degree.  Sixty 
people  were  working  at  the  headquarters  in  Paris, 
under  the  direction  of  Dr.  Livingston  Farrand, 
who  has  been  in  France^for  the  past  year. 

At  Circle  Industriele  lunch  I  found  Dr.  Carel, 
dressed  in  his  French  uniform  and  engaged  in  the 
big  medical  problems  of  the  war.  The  treatment  of 
"shell  shock,"  combining  as  it  does  both  a  physical 
and  mental  disease,  is  one  of  the  most  baffling 
with  which  medical  science  has  to  deal.  The  term 
is  used  to  describe  a  wide  range  of  cases  from  true 


268  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

paralysis  to  simple  cowardice.  Dr.  Thomas  W. 
Salmon  is  making  a  special  study  of  these  and 
other  nervous  casualties. 

KNIGHTS  OF  COLUMBUS 

The  work  of  the  Knights  of  Columbus  is  growing 
rapidly.  Supplies  and  men  come  overseas  almost 
every  day.  At  present  there  are  in  France  forty 
huts  in  operation,  with  one  hundred  secretaries 
and  forty  Knights  of  Columbus  chaplains. 

At  the  principal  ports  their  large  buildings  are 
seen.  These  are  filled  with  comforts  for  the  men 
going  to  the  front. 

Out  in  the  field  of  operations  their  unique 
automobile  kitchens  roll  along  with  the  men 
going  to  the  front,  each  one,  with  their  trailers, 
able  to  supply  two  hundred  and  fifty  men  at  a 
time. 

In  the  huts  soldiers  find  comfort  kits,  boxing 
gloves,  baseball  outfits,  trench  checkers,  tobacco 
and  cigarettes,  and  plenty  of  stationery  on  which 
to  write  home. 

The  comforts  of  the  men  are  studied,  even  to 
supplying  them  with  bouillon  cubes,  from  which 
they  may  make  hot  drinks,  and  candies  even  are 
among  the  cheer-bits  which  the  workers  supply. 

No  money  is  charged  for  any  of  these  articles, 


C'est  la  Guerre— It  is  the  War  269 

they  are  freely  given  to  the  men  so  long  as  the 
supply  lasts. 

The  work  is  thoroughly  cosmopolitan;  the  uni- 
form is  the  only  badge  the  organization  knows, 
and  all  who  wear  it  are  sure  of  a  cordial  greeting 
and  ready  assistance  from  the  workers  in  these  huts. 

To  see  Jewish  Rabbi,  Protestant  and  Catholic 
chaplains  working  side  by  side  in  the  great  effort 
of  relief  and  comfort  is  one  of  the  inspiring  pictures 
of  the  war. 

LOYAL  ORDER  OF  MOOSE 

When  I  heard  the  clear  ringing  tenor  voice  of 
my  friend,  Joe  Jenkins,  of  Pittsburg,  singing  in  a 
Paris  church,  "I  Know  That  My  Redeemer 
Liveth,"  it  was  to  see  in  the  expression  of  the  faces 
of  the  congregation  the  spiritual  awakening  of 
France.  When  the  clear  vibrant  notes  rang  out, 
it  seemed  as  if  there  must  be  a  reconsecration  of 
faith  in  God. 

Mr.  Jenkins  is  in  charge  of  the  work  of  the 
Loyal  Order  of  Moose  in  Paris,  and  is  doing  much 
for  their  soldier  members  at  the  front.  The  work 
is  being  directed  by  Mr.  James  Davis,  president 
of  the  Order,  who  was  widening  the  scope  of  the 
civic  war  activities.  Many  branches  of  the  Order 
are  being  organized  in  France  and  other  European 
countries  to  cement  the  fraternal  spirit  in  military 


270  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

organizations  which  will  follow  the  war.  The 
Moose  haunts  in  Paris  are  located  opposite  the 
Madeleine. 

JEWISH  WAR  RELIEF 

True  to  the  instinct  of  mercy,  of  relief  to  the 
helpless,  to  the  suffering  of  the  maimed,  the  halt 
and  the  blind,  which  has  ever  been  part  and  parcel 
of  their  religious  belief,  the  sons  of  Abraham  are 
heart  and  soul  in  all  helpful  ministries. 

Asking  for  no  particular  channel  through  which 
to  work,  and  seeking  no  gain,  the  Hebrew  associa- 
tions are  contributing  most  generously  of  time 
and  means  to  the  relief  of  war  sufferers  and  to 
cheering  those  in  actual  hostilities. 

"BEACON  OF  FRANCE" 

In  a  Toul  cafe  I  met  Miss  Holt  as  she  was 
engaged  in  her  "Beacon  of  France"  campaign. 
Later  I  visited  this  institution  which  was  founded 
by  French  and  Americans  for  the  relief  of  those 
blinded  in  the  war.  It  is  located  in  one  of  the  old 
homes  of  Paris,  and  is  surrounded  by  a  peaceful 
garden.  It  is  here  that  the  blind  are  taught  some 
useful  occupation  to  enable  them  to  earn  a  liveli- 
hood. Not  only  are  they  taught  to  work  with 
their  hands,  but  to  use  all  their  other  faculties  as 
well.    They  are  first  taught  to  read  and  write  by 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  2^1 

the  Braille  System.  Many  of  them  also  learn  to 
use  a  typewriter  and  some  have  even  taken  up 
the  study  of  stenography. 

They  are  taught  pottery,  both  modeling  and 
decorating,  weaving  of  cloth,  use  of  knitting 
machines — nearly  every  vocational  trade  for  the 
blind  is  included  in  the  curriculum. 

Teachers  are  nearly  all  volunteers  and  include 
well-known  instructors  and  specialists.  The  recre- 
ational phase  shows  the  "Beacon  of  France"  at 
its  best.  In  the  gymnasium  a  fencing  master  was 
teaching  the  blind  to  fence.  In  the  music-hall 
concerts  and  entertainments,  now  famous  in  Paris, 
were  being  given. 

To  see  the  blind  enjoying  themselves  on 
roller-skates,  merry-making,  relieved  the  grewsome 
shadows  of  war. 

THE  WORK  OF  RECONSTRUCTION 

After  travelling  over  the  shell-ridden  battle- 
fields and  ruined  villages  is  to  have  a  deeper 
appreciation  of  the  organization  of  women  having 
for  its  purpose  the  rebuilding  of  the  destroyed 
villages  of  France.  This  organization  works  in 
co-operation  with  the  authorities.  Their  able  and 
generous  efforts  will  soon  result  in  the  chang- 
ing of  blackened  masses  of  stone  and  plaster  to 
well-built  and  comfortable  homes. 


272  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

"Homes  Past  and  Future,"  a  pamphlet  written 
by  Mrs.  Helen  Choate  Prince,  tells  the  story 
graphically.  It  is  proposed  to  make  a  photograph 
of  every  village  adopted,  showing  all  its  ruined 
misery,  and  afterward  to  make  photographs  with 
the  improvements  made  and  send  the  records  and 
pictures  to  the  godparents  who  adopted  the  de- 
stroyed village. 

Mrs.  Prince  has  made  a  tour  of  the  devastated 
country.  Her  companion,  pointing  out  the  bare 
branches  of  the  dead  trees,  said:  "But,  look,  this 
is  not  winter — it  is  summer."  It  is  the  summer  of 
hopefulness  in  these  French  villages.  The  people 
are  cheered  by  the  generous-hearted  patronesses 
of  the  movement  to  build  again. 

Among  the  patronesses  of  the  movement  are 
the  names  of  many  prominent  American  women 
in  France  who,  working  heart  and  soul  with  the 
French  women,  are  helping  to  rehabilitate  rural 
France  and  make  her  more  glorious  than  ever. 


XXIV 

KING  ALBERT  IN  HIS  TRENCHED 
DOMAIN 

IT'S  a  long  way  from  Havre — now  the  capital 
of  Belgium — to  the  little  area  of  French  land 
which  represents  the  domain  of  King  Albert 
of  the  Belgians. 

When  I  arrived  in  the  quaint  and  picturesque 
channel  port  of  France,  I  thought  not  so  much  of 
France  as  of  little  Belgium.  Even  the  town  of 
ancient  Rouen  with  its  war  activities  and  British 
troops  did  not  distract  my  attention  from  that 
little  strip  of  land  to  the  northeast  known  in 
our  geography  as  Flanders. 

Rouen  revived  memories  of  the  old  struggle 
between  France  and  England.  It  seems  more  like 
an  English  city  than  any  other  town  in  France, 
and  has  been  virtually  turned  over  to  the  British 
as  a  base  of  supplies. 

Passing  through  Brittany  on  the  way  to  Havre, 
herds  of  cattle  seemed  more  numerous  than  on  a 
western  plain,  and  presented  a  pastoral  panorama, 

(273) 


274  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

recalling  Picardy  before  it  had  fallen  under  the 
Prussian  blight. 

Arriving  at  Havre,  I  drove  through  the  fog 
mists  to  the  home  of  Mr.  Brand  Whitlock,  United 
States  Minister  to  Belgium,  which  is  located  on  a 
quiet  street  with  a  flower  garden  in  front.  He 
was  not  at  home,  but  away  preparing  to  move — 
a  habit  created  in  Belgium  in  the  stirring  days  of 
1914.  In  his  study  were  masses  of  papers  and 
manuscripts,  indicating  a  busy  life.  Ever  since 
the  war  cloud  burst,  Mr.  Whitlock  has  been  a 
conspicuous  figure  in  European  affairs,  and  his 
record  of  those  days  has  already  become  history. 

There  was  nothing  suggestive  of  the  stirring 
days,  nor  of  the  strenuous  work  in  caring  for  the 
refugees  who  were  driven  ruthlessly  from  their 
homes,  though  the  quiet  did  not  hide  the  tragic 
memories  of  the  first  scenes  in  the  war.  Some 
members  of  scattered  families  were  still  calling 
at  the  Legation  in  hopes  of  news  from  their  lost 
ones,  but  always  leaving  with  a  blessing  upon 
the  Nation  which  had  helped  them  in  the  hour  of 
need. 

On  the  streets  of  Havre  were  soldiers  with  little 
tassels  on  their  caps,  a  distinctive  feature  of  their 
uniform.  The  Belgian  army  is  even  larger  than 
when  the  green-gray  lines  of  the  Germans  swept 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  275 

across  the  border,  pouring  murderous  shrapnel 
into  this  peaceful  realm. 

This  old  seaport  town  fairly  reeks  with  romance, 
and  is  even  now  more  picturesque  with  the  rollick- 
ing freedom  of  the  sailors.  The  heart  of  Havre  is 
the  large  basin  in  which  vessels,  defiant  of  enemy- 
raiders  and  submarines,  are  moored,  representing 
the  free  commerce  of  the  high  seas.  The  drive 
along  the  seawall  furnishes  an  inspiring  picture. 
Evidences  of  the  old  days  of  peace  and  restfulness 
by  the  sea  remain. 

Bright-faced  Yankee  soldiers  add  a  new  touch 
to  the  scene.  One  of  them  directed  me  to  the 
buildings  in  which  the  government  offices  of 
Belgium  are  located.  They  are  only  temporary 
quarters  and  resemble  the  beaver  board  structures 
in  Washington,  and  the  governmental  machinery 
is  intact  and  running  just  as  if  Belgium  was  not 
occupied  by  Huns. 

When  I  entered  these  quarters,  I  thought  of 
Brussels.  The  little  American  flag  I  wore  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  messengers.  Every 
face  brightened  and  seemed  to  reflect  a  spirit 
of  gratitude  toward  America.  Many  of  the 
Belgians  speak  English,  or  at  least,  understand 
it.  One  old  man  with  his  whiskers,  looked  like 
Uncle  Sam,  and  so  attracted   my  attention  that 


276  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

I  shook  his  hand.  He  smiled  and  said  in  broken 
English : 

"American  always  good — he  knows  our  hearts." 

A  char  woman  was  busy  brushing  a  Belgian  flag. 
As  I  stood  [looking  at  it,  my  "Uncle  Sam"  friend, 
proud  of  his  English  explained  the  colors  in  it, 
saying: 

"Red  for  blood,  yellow  for  hope,  black  for 
mourning." 

The  artillery  activities  at  the  front  had  been 
resumed,  but  the  attacks  were  repulsed.  On  the 
banks  of  the  Canal  Yser,  King  Albert  holds  his 
trenched  domain  with  one  hundred  and  eighty 
thousand  soldiers.  The  flag  of  little  Belgium  still 
proudly  floats  over  her  troops. 

No  conqueror  has  ever  passed  the  River  Yser. 
Even  Caesar  with  his  legions  never  did  it;  Napol- 
eon pushing  his  armies  into  Russia,  even  when 
conquering  Prussia,  never  crossed  the  Yser.  It 
may  be  called  the  modern  Rubicon  over  which 
no  invader  ever  passed.  The  banks  of  the  river 
are  low  and  marshy,  and  Germans  in  frequent 
attempts  to  cross  on  pontoon  bridges  were  re- 
pulsed. Belgian  soldiers  for  diversion  now  and 
then  swim  across  with  knives  and  cold  steel  to 
worry  the  Hun. 

The  Belgian  frontier  extends  from  Nieuport  to 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  277 

Ploegsteert,  and  a  journey  toward  it  recalled  a 
succession  of  the  ghastly  memories  of  1914.  In 
the  salient  extending  out  from  Ypres  (pronounced 
all  way  from  I-prees  to  Wy -press,  according  to 
the  country,  or  as  the  British  "Tommies"  say 
"Wipers),  is  a  part  of  the  bloody  cockpit  of 
Europe. 

The  "big  show"  at  Ypres  is  still  conversation 
for  many  of  the  British  with  whom  we  chatted 
on  the  speed-record  tour.  Now  we  began  to 
know  what  the  Hindenburg  line  meant.  What 
stories  some  of  the  old  dilapidated  and  crumbling 
trenches,  yawning  like  open  or  abandoned  graves, 
could  tell!  In  many  the  dead  had  been  placed 
while  shells  were  falling  and  armies  retreating. 

The  trip  was  fast  because  we  had  to  make  many 
detours  and  go  roundabout  ways.  We  carried  a 
schedule  of  the  junction  points  at  which  to  make 
changes,  but  would  have  been  lost  or  missing  to 
this  day  except  for  the  kindly  help  of  the  officers 
who  straightened  us  out,  with  many  a  disgusted 
nod  as  they  looked  at  the  photograph  of  my  blank 
and  guileless  face,  talking  real  languages  I  didn't 
understand. 

Truly  it  was  a  whirlwind  jaunt.  The  most  I 
remember  was  telephone  poles.  In  a  three-cor- 
nered house  where  one  wing  had  been  left  standing, 


278  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

we  had  lunch.  The  old  lady  pointed  proudly  to 
the  picture  of  Woodrow  Wilson  on  the  wall  and 
told  of  how  her  family  had  been  scattered,  and  of 
her  boys  still  in  the  army.  "We  will  all  unite 
again,"  was  her  hopeful  reply  when  the  interpreter 
told  her  the  latest  war  news.  Though  the  house 
was  ruined,  she  had  kept  together  some  trophies 
of  Flemish  art,  as  well  as  heirlooms. 

To  see  Flanders  was  like  visiting  sacred  ground. 
I  had  looked  forward  to  meeting  King  Albert  as 
the  one  great  event  of  the  trip,  because  I  had  met 
him  in  1898  as  he  traveled  incognito  through  the 
United  States.  While  waiting  for  the  long-looked- 
for  appointment,  which  Mr.  Whitlock  had  earlier 
tried  to  arrange,  my  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
days  when  the  young  Prince,  after  his  visit  to  the 
United  States,  became  to  his  own  people  the 
pulsating  voice  of  democracy.  After  he  had  made 
his  farewell  visit  to  President  McKinley,  I  saw  him 
turn  and  point  to  the  flag  over  the  White  House 
and  say: 

"WThat  a  great  flag  you  have." 

"You  bet  that's  a  great  flag,"  I  replied,  in  all 
the  gusto  of  '98. 

"Yes,  but  out  of  that  flag  has  been  born  a  new 
flag — a  flag  with  a  single  star  representing  free 
and  independent  Cuba." 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  279 

This  tribute  to  Old  Glory  from  the  lips  of  Prince 
Albert  has  never  been  forgotten. 

Mr.  Brand  Whitlock  in  his  reports  has  charged 
the  Germans  with  specific  facts  and  dates  of  the 
atrocities  at  Dinant  where  ninety  people,  including 
six  babies  in  their  mother's  arms,  were  driven  into 
the  street  and  shot.  This  was  in  August,  1914. 
The  city  of  Namur  was  made  to  pay  thirty-two 
million  francs  for  indemnity  before  the  murderous 
German  guns  had  stopped  smoking.  Then,  too, 
there  was  the  tragic  spectacle  at  Ardenne — but  all 
this  is  now  a  record. 

As  has  been  said:  "A  highwayman  demands 
your  money  or  your  life,"  but  the  Huns  took  both. 

Driven  back  at  times  in  their  invasion,  they 
returned  to  rob  and  loot  and  kill  with  redoubled 
fury.  Each  town  has  its  authentic  record  of  these 
atrocities.  The  blackest  pages  of  human  history 
are  those  written  by  the  Boche  in  the  blood  of 
Belgium.  They  will  ever  remain  the  black  curse 
of  Germany. 

Long  before  I  saw  King  Albert  there  was  a  rush 
among  the  tassel-capped  soldiers,  a  look  akin  to 
lovelight  in  their  eyes,  as  they  anticipated  the 
frequent  but  always  prized  privilege  of  seeing 
the  one  they  affectionately  call  "our  hero  King." 
And  now  he  appeared — the  stoop  of  the  Prince 


280  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

was  gone.  In  simple  khaki  he  looked  every  inch 
a  King  in  deed  as  well  as  birth.  His  greeting  had 
the  same  cordial  manner  of  twenty  years  ago. 
There  was  more  in  his  actions  than  in  his  words. 
He  stopped  to  read  a  paper  a  messenger  brought, 
and  although  near-sighted,  he  sees  everything 
about  him.  His  manner  indicates  a  thoughtful 
kind-hearted  friend. 

"You  Americans  always  awaken  inspiring  mem- 
ories," he  said  looking  up. 

My  usual  question,  "Will  you  visit  America 
again?" 

"I  am  visiting  America  often  in  my  thoughts," 
he  replied  graciously. 

Just  then  an  orderly  came  up.  I  felt  that  the 
plans  made  to  see  him  later  might  go  awry,  for 
there  was  news  of  activity  on  the  front,  and  war 
waits  for  nothing. 

The  one  passion  of  King  Albert  is  to  be  with 
his  soldiers,  and  to  spend  as  much  of  his  time  as 
possible  on  the  soil  of  his  beloved  Belgium.  This 
was  all  I  saw  of  the  men  I  had  so  much  desired  to 
meet,  but  I  had  learned  already  to  keep  out  of 
the  way  when  "artillery  activities"  were  reported. 

King  Albert  is  the  grandson  of  the  founder 
of  the  dynasty  which  ruled  Belgium  for  nearly 
ninety  years.     He  was  born  in  1875,  being  the 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  281 

son  of  the  youngest  son  of  Leopold  the  First.  As 
such,  his  likelihood  of  wearing  the  crown  was  con- 
sidered remote.  His  education  was  military,  and 
his  tastes  industrial,  for  early  in  life  he  loved  to 
meet  and  mingle  with  the  people  at  work.  He 
also  knew  the  value  of  silence,  and  although  by 
virtue  of  his  rank  a  member  of  the  Belgian  Senate, 
he  never  took  part  in  the  discussions  involving 
partisan  matters.  He  made  trips  to  England,  and 
his  journeys  to  the  Congo  State,  and  the  United 
States  were  at  first  opposed  by  his  uncle,  King 
Leopold  II,  but  the  young  Prince  prevailed. 

Two  years  after  his  tour  of  the  United  States, 
he  married  the  daughter  of  a  Bavarian  prince  who 
was  famous  as  an  oculist.  The  daughter  had  helped 
her  father  in  his  work  and  as  Queen  Elizabeth  of 
Belgium,  she  has  truly  been  a  helpmate  to  her  hero 
King.  When  he  took  the  oath  of  his  office  in 
1909,  he  gave  expression  to  words  that  fore- 
shadowed his  career.  "I  swear  to  observe  the 
constitution  and  to  defend  the  integrity  of  the 
national  territory."  When  the  crucial  moment 
came  he  immortalized  his  oath. 

His  utterances  are  cherished  by  the  Belgian 
people. 

In  one  of  the  headquarters  I  saw  a  sheet  of 
crude  wrapping  paper  in  a  gold  frame,  which  had 


282  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

once  contained  a  painting,  on  which  is  engrossed 
the  following: 

"The  sovereign  must  be  the  servant  of  the  law 
and  supporter  of  social  peace.  I  love  my  country 
and  the  Queen  shares  with  me  the  unalterable 
feeling  of  fidelity  to  Belgium  which  we  are  in- 
culcating in  our  children.  I  will  endeavor  to 
deserve  your  confidence  myself  and  before  the 
country  I  take  the  pledge  to  do  my  duty  scrup- 
ulously and  to  consecrate  all  my  strength  and  life 
to  the  service  of  our  country." 

These  were  words  spoken  before  the  flame  of 
war  had  appeared  and  indicate  the  foundation  of 
the  faith  on  which  King  Albert  has  builded.  Even 
then  he  seemed  to  sense  the  coming  storm,  and 
against  bitter  opposition  ardently  supported  the 
army  bill.  He  seemed  to  have  a  premonition  of 
Germany's  purpose,  and  of  the  fateful  Sunday, 
August  2,  1914,  when  the  Prussian  ultimatum  was 
issued. 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  humor  in  his  famous 
remark  that  "Germany  seemed  to  believe  Belgium 
was  a  road,  not  a  country." 

The  masterful  retreat  which  he  made  before 
the  first  German  drive,  and  in  establishing  his 
line  from  Nieuport  along  the  Yser  Canal  showed 
military  training  and  genius.    Frequently  he  goes 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  283 

to  the  front  line  trenches  in  undress  uniform  with 
only  the  star  of  Leopold  hidden  under  his  cape 
to  indicate  his  rank.  An  unerring  marksman  he 
was  seen  to  take  the  rifle  of  a  soldier  who  had  just 
been  killed  and  to  continue  the  actual  defense 
of  his  country,  glorifying  his  saying: 

"My  place  is  with  my  brave  soldiers." 

A  strong  figure,  clinging  to  the  little  corner  of 
Belgium,  and  refusing  to  cross  the  Channel  to 
England  for  greater  safety  he  declared: 

"It  is  better  to  die  here  than  in  a  foreign  land. 
If  Belgium  loses  her  freedom  to  brute  force,  I 
will  perish  with  its  defenders." 

There  is  only  one  dominant  feeling  among 
Belgians  today.  The  trenched  domain,  consisting 
largely  of  sand  dunes  stretching  from  the  North 
Sea  along  the  sluggish  waters  of  the  Yser,  means 
more  to  King  Albert  and  the  Belgians — defended 
as  it  is  with  honor — than  Continental  Russia 
crumbling  under  the  treason  of  the  Bolsheviki. 


XXV 


LONDON  IN  WAR  TIMES 


BRACKETTED   between   my  first   and   last 
impressions  in  London  were  many  things, 
but  the  first  and  last  scenes  not  only  stand 
out  clearly,  but  are  an  index  of  the  whole  spirit 
and  temper  of  London  today. 

The  first  picture  was  when  I  arrived  in  the 
Waterloo  Station  and  looked  upon  a  Red  Cross 
hospital  train  bright  and  fresh  from  the  car  shops. 
An  eager  throng  was  passing  up  and  down  on  a 
tour  of  inspection,  examining  the  equipment  and 
perhaps  wondering  how  soon  their  own  might  be 
there.  Americans  were  among  them.  This  hos- 
pital train  was  built  in  England  for  the  medical 
department  in  France.  In  it  was  a  surgical  room 
filled  with  dressings  and  fitted  with  the  latest 
improvements.  The  Glennon  bunks  are  built 
into  all  the  cars  for  the  sick  and  wounded.  A 
kitchen  car  was  attached  in  which  there  was 
running  water  and  a  room  for  the  cooks.     The 

(284) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  285 

large  Red  Cross,  the  international  insignia,  was  on 
the  windows  of  the  cars,  shining  fresh  and  radiant 
amid  the  grimy  surroundings.  And  that  very 
night  an  air  raid  occurred  and  the  cars  were  used. 

The  second  picture  was  on  the  day  of  my  depar- 
ture, when  at  Victoria  Station,  an  out-going  train 
was  thronged  with  British  "Tommies,"  going  to 
the  front.  A  mass  of  people  had  gathered  to  say 
farewell.  Fathers,  mothers,  sisters  and  sweet- 
hearts were  in  the  crowd.  Officers  in  uniform 
were  there,  many  of  whom  were  of  the  gentry. 
A  suppressed  feeling,  and  sometimes  a  tearful 
expression  overspread  the  faces  of  the  onlookers, 
though  the  soldiers  seemed  to  be  in  the  tradi- 
tional jovial  mood.  In  that  train  the  officers 
were  traveling  first-class,  others  second  and  third 
class,  but  in  the  heart  of  each  soldier  was  a  spirit 
which  bespoke  a  new  comradeship,  animated  by 
one  purpose  and  welded  in  a  common  cause. 

In  all  that  concourse,  two  figures  standing 
together  engaging  in  conversation,  particularly 
attracted  me.  No  word  would  be  needed  to  tell 
you  that  one  of  them  was  a  nobleman — he  looked 
noble.  The  other  was  a  man  fully  seventy.  His 
hair  white,  his  face  furrowed,  with  a  slight  stoop 
to  his  frame.  He  was  a  Yorkshire  textile  worker. 
It  was  the  old  man  who  was  speaking : 


286  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

"I  have  six  sons,  sir,  in  the  war,  four  of  them 
wounded,  one  in  the  big  drive  now  on,  and  the 
baby's  off  tonight,  sir!  See  him  there?"  pointing 
him  out. 

The  scion  of  ancient  lineage,  with  not  so  much 
as  a  quiver  though  he  was  bidding  his  only  son 
good-bye,  said: 

"We  are  each  giving  our  all  now!" 

Just  then  the  tall  manly  figure  of  the  baronet's 
son  appeared  for  the  last  word  with  his  father. 

"Let  me  have  a  line  often,  Governor,"  he 
merrily  chirped  and  was  off  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand. 

Within  twelve  or  twenty-four  hours  that  train- 
load  of  British  sons  would  be  at  the  front,  as  a 
part  of  the  emergency  reserves  stemming  the  waves 
of  the  onrushing  Huns. 

On  arriving  in  London  I  stood  for  an  hour 
outside  the  station  waiting  for  a  taxi.  None  ap- 
peared, so  a-top  a  bus  I  started  through  the  streets. 
Nowhere  was  the  gay  sprightly  life  of  other  days 
visible.  London  seemed  war-worn,  yet  it  was 
wrapped  in  a  quiet  stern  glory. 

Walking  along  the  Thames  Embankment,  I 
observed  the  walls  on  my  right  covered  with  every 
conceivable  kind  of  poster  with  appeals  for  war 
relief,  but  it  was  the  finest  literature  I  ever  read. 


Cest  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  287 

One  of  them  displayed  large  letters  across  the 
top,  "The  Die  Hards" — a  poster  with  a  grim 
meaning.  Some  of  our  American  food  posters 
were  there — also  appealing  to  a  hungry  traveler. 

I  had  to  go  to  Scotland  Yard  to  report — Mecca 
for  Conan  Doyle  and  the  great  detective  eye  of 
the  world.  Finding  I  could  not  report  there,  I  was 
sent  to  Bow  Street,  where  many  a  famous  criminal 
was  incarcerated.  After  being  duly  Londonized 
by  the  sergeant,  who  was  very  considerate  of  me, 
I  found  myself  in  a  long  line  of  people  waiting 
for  identification  cards  to  be  stamped. 

A  good  American  cigar  facilitated  the  dispatch 
of  my  affairs.  The  sergeant  took  me  into  a  side 
room  and  I  was  through  in  a  hurry.  He  seemed  to 
want  to  talk  about  America  and  asked:  "When 
are  your  boys  coming  over?" 

Lunching  at  the  old  Cheshire  Cheese  Inn — 
made  famous  by  Dr.  Johnson,  whose  head  rested 
so  many  times  against  the  wall  that  it  was  said  to 
have  made  a  niche  in  it — I,  too,  rested  my  head. 
There  was  very  little  on  the  menu  except  fish. 
From  others  at  the  table  could  be  heard  the 
exclamation:  "Same  old  salmon."  Beef  and 
Yorkshire  pudding  were  among  the  missing. 

London  has  always  prided  herself  on  her  police- 
men.   When  I  reached  the  Strand,  not  one  of  the 


288  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

old  guard  was  in  sight.  Neither  was  there  a  single 
pleasure  automobile  rolling  along  the  streets. 
People  were  using  the  tubes  and  busses.  Rigid 
economy  was  in  the  very  air.  The  people  as  they 
moved  about  still  manifested  remarkable  cheeri- 
ness.  In  the  parks  blue  uniformed  wounded 
soldiers  were  to  be  found  in  great  numbers.  They 
were  also  threading  their  way  through  the  crowds 
on  all  the  streets.  London  is  the  center  of  hos- 
pitals for  wounded  soldiers.  In  the  open  spaces 
and  parks,  war  huts  were  tucked  into  every  avail- 
able space,  together  with  larger  buildings  for 
officers. 

The  only  way  I  could  get  around  was  in  a 
rackety  taxi.  In  it  I  spent  many  busy  hours 
rolling  about  London.  It  was  the  only  way  I 
could  make  my  calls. 

One  of  the  great  shopping  centers  in  London  is 
a  department  store  founded  by  my  old  friend, 
H.  Gordon  Selfridge.  He  was  formerly  manager 
of  Marshall  Field's  retail  store  in  Chicago,  and 
when  he  decided  to  locate  in  London,  there  was  a 
shaking  of  heads,  showing  evidences  of  doubt 
among  both  English  and  American  friends.  Yet, 
in  the  astonishingly  short  space  of  a  few  years,  the 
establishment  of  Selfridge  has  become  a  prominent 
institution  of  Great  Britain,  foreshadowing  in  a 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  289 

business  way  what  has  later  come  about  in  the 
military  and  naval  alliance. 

It  was  a  real  American  feeling  to  be  caught  by 
the  crowd  and  carried  to  the  soda  fountain  in  the 
corner.  Fizz  fountains  are  rare  in  London.  Here 
I  drank  to  the  health  of  my  friend,  H.  Gordon 
Self  ridge. 

At  Crewe  House  Lord  Northcliffe,  the  news- 
paper ruler  of  Great  Britain,  has  his  office.  As 
the  owner  of  the  London  Times  (The  Thunderer) , 
and  other  papers  and  periodicals,  he  is  a  powerful 
voice  in  the  public  life  of  the  Empire.  He  had  been 
ill  for  some  months,  due  to  the  strain  of  his  service 
on  the  American  Commission.  He  made  an 
appointment  for  me  to  see  him,  but  the  taxi 
service  was  too  slow  to  enable  me  to  make  all 
points  on  the  schedule. 

Then  I  had  a  hurried  luncheon  with  Arthur 
T.  Pollen,  reputed  as  the  expert  writer  in  naval 
affairs.  He  has  visited  the  United  States,  and  his 
analytical  discussions  of  American  affairs  and 
public  men  contain  a  perspective  not  attained  by 
any  man  since  Lord  Bryce. 

We  had  not  left  the  table  after  another  pisca- 
torial feast,  when  the  somewhat  stooped  form  of 
the  Right  Honorable  Winston  Churchill,  former 
First   Lord   of   the   Admiralty,   stood   before   us. 


290  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

He  was  in  a  jovial  mood.  He  wore  a  winged  collar, 
black  cravat,  and  his  grey  eyes  glistened  as  he 
whistled  "The  Yanks  are  Coming."  That  was 
his  unique  way  of  greeting  me.  He  was  swinging 
his  cane  up  and  down  with  a  movement  that  indi- 
cated the  rise  and  fall  of  his  political  fortune — 
for  Churchill  must  be  reckoned  with. 

Americans  in  London  seem  to  be  thoroughly 
purged  of  the  braggadocio  of  tourist  days,  and 
British  reserve  has  been  melting  accordingly. 
London  seems  more  homelike  than  ever  to  Ameri- 
cans. My  good  friend,  Mr.  George  Thomas  of 
Manchester,  always  warm-hearted  with  strangers, 
is  now  looked  upon  as  a  model  host  by  his  English 
friends.  He  may  yet  sacrifice  his  whiskers  as  a 
compliment  to  the  smooth-face  American. 

Going  out  to  Wimbledon  I  called  on  Mr.  Byron 
Miller,  of  the  Woolworth  Company.  Mr.  F.  W. 
Woolworth  was  himself  in  France  when  the  war 
broke  out,  and  his  experiences  in  getting  out  of 
the  field  of  hostilities  well  illustrates  his  favorite 
phrase:  "There  must  be  some  way  out."  Calling 
later  on  Lord  Morley  at  Flower  Heath,  I  passed 
the  golf  links,  which,  together  with  the  parks, 
had  been  cut  up  into  "allotments."  Myriads  of 
people  have  gardens  there.  They  were  dotted 
all    over    with    tool    houses,    resembling    "claim" 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  291 

shanties.  For  the  first  meal  at  Norfolk  Lodge,  Mrs. 
Miller  had  a  vegetable  loaf,  looking  like  sausages 
side  by  side.  Vegetables,  corn  fritters  and  peanuts 
constituted  the  meal.  In  their  garage,  were  two 
automobiles  neither  of  which  had  been  used  for 
two  years.  Everybody  was  under  war  regulations. 
The  most  complete  unit  I  saw  anywhere  in 
Europe  was  composed  of  a  few  American  women, 
called  the  "Care  Committee  for  American  Soldiers." 
Here  every  American  woman  is  working  with 
both  hands,  including  the  wife  of  the  Ambassador 
and  Consul.  Their  quarters  are  located  on  Bond 
Street,  over  a  jewelry  shop,  the  rooms  being  gen- 
erously contributed  by  the  proprietor.  These 
elect  women  personally  visit  the  hospitals  where 
there  are  American  wounded  to  ascertain  what 
each  would  like  and  to  see  that  it  is  provided. 
It  was  here  that  I  met  a  young  lieutenant  who  had 
fallen  with  his  airplane,  his  jaw  crushed  so  badly 
that  he  could  scarcely  talk,  yet  able  to  express 
his  gratitude  for  the  painstaking  kindness  of  this 
little  group  of  American  women.  The  one  thing 
most  desired  by  this  Care  Committee  is  American 
magazines  and  papers,  the  only  way  to  secure 
which  is  to  order  from  the  publishers.  Only  the 
individual  order  can  be  sent,  no  packages  are 
allowed. 


292  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Yielding  to  what  was  now  a  habit,  I  started 
for  the  Red  Cross  headquarters  where  I  found 
Major  Endicott  in  charge.  Here  were  hundreds 
of  wives  of  soldiers  making  surgical  dressings. 
So  painstaking  were  they  in  the  preparation  of 
these  that  not  even  a  stray  thread  was  allowed 
for  fear  it  might  irritate  a  wound. 

Not  far  from  here  is  the  statue  of  Florence 
Nightingale.  Statues,  as  well  as  men,  have  their 
day.  This  statue  reflects  the  heart  of  London  in 
the  war,  a  fresh  wreath  of  flowers  being  placed 
there  daily. 

Rodehampton  Hospital  specializes  in  artificial 
limbs.  One  man  treated  walked  for  the  visitors, 
who  were  asked  to  guess  which  one  was  the  arti- 
ficial limb.  One  guessed  the  right  and  another 
the  left. 

"Wrong,"  he  laughed,  "both  the  bloomin'  pegs 
are  gone." 

In  one  of  the  hospitals  I  found  the  son  of  a 
friend.  His  mother  had  asked  me  to  look  him  up 
and  to  ascertain  why  he  had  not  written.  I  found 
he  was  recovering  rapidly,  not  at  all  anxious  to 
get  out,  for  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  his  nurse. 
"We  are  engaged,"  he  whispered,  and  I  came  away 
whistling  "I  don't  want  to  get  well,  I'm  in  love 
with  a  beautiful  nurse." 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  293 

St.  Dunstan's  Hospital  was  for  blind  soldiers. 
The  structure  was  formerly  the  home  of  Otto 
Kahn  of  New  York,  now  turned  over  by  him  for 
a  hospital.  Here  I  saw  the  blind  enjoying  them- 
selves on  roller  skates  or  being  taught  useful 
occupations.  Sir  Arthur  Pearson,  founder  of 
Pearson's  Magazine,  is  in  charge,  devoting  his 
time  to  the  relief  of  the  blind. 

On  Carlton  Terrace,  standing  with  a  group  of 
Americans,  in  which  there  was  a  mixture  of 
Englishmen,  we  saw  Colonel  Whitman's  regiment 
swing  by  with  that  peculiar  freedom  of  movement 
of  the  shoulders  made  possible,  so  it  is  said,  by  the 
wearing  of  belts  rather  than  braces.  As  they 
passed  in  review  of  King  George  V,  at  Buckingham 
Palace,  he  was  heard  to  say: 

"The  boys  look  fine.  They  have  the  swing  of 
confidence.*' 

The  King  recently  threw  out  a  baseball  at  a 
game  between  the  American  Army  and  Navy. 
The  comments  of  a  London  newspaper  writer 
about  the  game  was  an  appreciative  observation 
on  the  American  national  sport. 

It  was  an  inspiring  moment  when  American 
troops  swung  down  the  Pall  Mall  lined  on  either 
side  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  Following  the 
troops    was   a   gray-bearded    Civil   War   veteran 


294  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

carrying  a  little  flag.  Every  American  in  our 
party  uncovered.  The  British  pay  honor  to 
the  King,  while  Americans  venerate  the  flag  as 
expressing  an  ideal. 

All  unexpected  to  him,  undoubtedly,  I  wrote 
the  King  extending  my  felicitations.  My  English 
and  American  friends  laughed  at  my  informal 
manner;  yet  in  twelve  hours  I  had  received  a 
reply  from  the  King's  Secretary,  thanking  me 
for  the  fine  spirit  of  my  letter. 

Meeting  the  leaders  of  the  American  Labor 
Mission,  my  friend,  McCormick,  told  me  how 
they  had  been  received  by  the  King.  I  said  to 
him:  "I  think  I  ought  to  call  on  the  King  before 
I  leave."  The  Embassy  arranged  the  matter,  but 
the  date  set  was  after  that  on  which  I  was  due  to 
sail.  Mr.  Shucraft,  the  secretary  of  the  Embassy 
said: 

"I  know  the  Assistant  Secretary  to  the  King 
and  will  advise  him  of  your  early  departure." 

Borrowing  a  frock  coat  and  a  silk  hat  and  a  pair 
of  white  spats  from  an  English  friend,  forty -four 
stout,  and  buying  a  cane  and  pair  of  lavender 
gloves,  I  started  for  Buckingham  Palace.  Stand- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  Strand  until  I  could  get  a 
cab  which  seemed  to  correspond  to  my  attire,  and 
entering  the  "chariot,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  lolled 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  295 

at  a  patrician  angle  on  the  cane  with  care-flung 
gloves:  "They'll  think  a  real  duke  is  coming  now." 

As  I  went  toward  Buckingham  Palace  I  saw 
English  soldiers  nearby  training  with  gas  masks. 
I  then  wondered  how  my  voice  would  work  in 
the  presence  of  royalty. 

I  rolled  up  the  graveled  drive  to  the  palace. 
Alighting  I  asked  for  the  Assistant  Secretary. 
I  was  escorted  into  a  large  room  and  while  waiting, 
spent  my  time  in  looking  at  the  pictures  on  the 
walls.  The  King  was  leaving  that  day  for  Sand- 
ringham.  One  by  one  other  men  gathered  until 
there  was  quite  a  group.  Finally  the  attendant 
appeared  and  motioning  that  we  were  to  follow,  I 
found  myself  in  the  room  where  stood  the  King  of 
England.  The  first  glimpse  I  had  of  him  was  with 
his  back  toward  me.  As  the  different  men  melted 
away  and  my  turn  came,  the  attendant  presented 
me.  I  extended  greetings.  He  bowed  and  said 
in  his  quiet  democratic  way : 

"It  is  always  a  delight  to  meet  you  Americans." 
There  was  something  so  good,  noble  and  earnest 
in  the  way  he  said  it.  I  bowed  and  earnestly  paid 
my  tribute  to  the  kingly  man  and  manly  king,  and 
with  the  same  spirit  as  I  would  sing  the  "Star 
Spangled  Banner,"  I  now  would  sing  "God  Save 
the  King." 


XXVI 


HOMEWARD   BOUND— SMOKE   TALK 


SEATED     on    wooden    benches,    like    school 
children  in  the  old  days,  the  few  who  were 
to  sail  that  morning  waited  in  the  Landing 
Stage  at  Liverpool.    Every  person  was  separately 
examined,  for  once  on  board,  it  was  to  stay. 

Out  in  the  Channel  lay  the  great  ship  which  was 
to  take  us  home.  To  reach  her  we  boarded  a 
tender.  The  skies  were  pouring  rain,  and  though 
soon  wet  to  the  skin,  none  of  the  enthusiasm  for 
the  voyage  was  lost.  To  be  home  again!  To  tell 
the  people  what  I  had  seen  with  my  own  eyes! 
To  relate  experiences,  probably  given  to  no  other 
man  of  my  capacity  in  equal  space  and  time! 
To  carry  the  messages  from  soldier-boys  at  the 
front  to  fathers  and  mothers!  To  bear  greetings 
from  Premiers  and  Cabinet  officers!  That  was 
my  purpose.  I  knew  not  what  precious  cargo  was 
aboard  our  ship,  but  in  my  brain  and  heart  I 
carried  a  wealth  untold. 

(296) 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  297 

What  a  thrill  swept  over  me  as  I  first  learned  that 
our  ship  was  the  Carmania — she  of  the  charmed 
life.  Had  she  not  been  reported  sunk  a  number 
of  times?  Three  hundred  and  three  shots  were 
in  her  hull.  Five  had  penetrated  below  the  water 
line.  She  had  been  through  the  battle  of  the 
Falkland  Islands,  but — she  was  still  afloat.  Then, 
too,  she  was  in  the  hands  of  Captain  Irwin,  still 
undaunted,  who  had  seen  two  ships  torpedoed 
from  under  him. 

Near  us  lay  the  great  Aquatania — the  largest 
ship  alive.  In  her  great  arms  she  was  tenderly 
bearing  the  wounded  soldiers  home. 

Once  on  board  there  was  a  long  wait  of  nearly 
twenty -four  hours.  In  our  squadron  were  eight 
ships,  and  we  were  waiting  for  convoy.  After 
what  seemed  an  interminably  long  time,  the  con- 
voy appeared,  steaming  out  of  moorings  to  take 
their  place  in  the  line  on  either  side.  There  were 
seven.  Outside  the  line  of  our  ships  were  the 
big  battle  craft,  while  outside  of  these  were  the 
destroyers,  which,  during  the  voyage,  darted  in 
and  out,  ahead,  astern,  and  between  the  battle 
craft,  always  steering  a  zigzag  course,  humming 
like  a  hornet,  and  looking  as  spiteful. 

Now  we  are  moving  down  the  Channel!  The 
ship  was  threading  the  graveyard  of  the  Mersey. 


298  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

Masts  of  sunken  ships  push  out  of  the  water  here 
and  there,  mute  reminders  of  the  myriad  tragedies 
of  the  past  four  years! 

Not  once  during  the  first  three  days  out  to  sea 
did  our  convoy  relax  its  vigilance.  When  we 
reached  a  certain  longitude,  the  convoy  swung 
off;  each  of  the  eight  ships  was  left  to  its  own 
defense,  and  each  began  to  steer  a  different  course. 
In  a  few  hours  it  was  hulls  down  on  the  horizon, 
and  our  good  ship  was  alone.  So  rapidly  did  she 
zigzag,  that,  walking  the  deck  one  evening  with 
the  sun  directly  astern,  by  the  time  I  had  crossed 
the  deck,  where  I  had  seen  the  sun  on  that  side,  I 
now  saw  it  on  the  other. 

It  was  here,  on  my  first  day  at  sea,  that  I 
asked  a  stranger  for  a  match.  That  match  lighted 
a  most  enjoyable  friendship,  for  the  donor,  Mr. 
H.  E.  Worthington,  an  Englishman  by  birth,  and 
now  a  resident  of  Philadelphia,  became  my  seat- 
mate  and  companion. 

Our  passenger  list  numbered  thirty-eight,  only 
two  of  whom  were  women.  The  smoke  room, 
then,  naturally  became  the  inner  shrine  of  the 
ship,  and  it  was  not  long  before  it  became  an  open 
forum,  where  topics  pertaining  to  the  war  were 
threshed  out. 

Our  party  formed  a  very  cosmopolitan  company. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  299 

Among  others  were  Dr.  George  E.  Vincent, 
president  of  the  Rockefeller  Foundation;  Dr. 
Livingston  Farrand,  tuberculosis  expert,  who 
had  been  in  France  for  a  year;  a  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
secretary  from  America;  the  president  of  the 
British  Seaman's  Union,  and  a  native  of  New 
Zealand;  a  lieutenant  of  the  British  Army,  who 
had  been  serving  in  South  Africa,  teaching  natives 
how  to  use  machine  guns;  a  captain  of  the  British 
Army  from  Australia;  a  soldier  from  New  Zealand; 
a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretary  from  India,  Rev.  Joseph 
Clare,  for  five  years  minister  of  the  British- 
American  Church  at  Petrograd;  expert  aviators 
from  the  British  Air  Force;  an  aviator  from 
Argentina,  and  a  nurse  from  Nova  Scotia.  The 
commander  of  the  convoy  detailed  by  the  Ad- 
miralty had  been  for  many  years  the  captain  of 
tramp  steamers  all  over  the  world.  Of  all  the 
company  he  alone  seemed  indisposed  to  talk,  but 
he  was  a  hard  listener. 

The  forumesque  character  of  the  evening  gath- 
erings soon  assumed  definite  shape.  My  friend 
Worthington,  extremely  modest,  was  persuaded 
to  act  as  judge  advocate.  Dr.  Vincent,  whose 
father  was  the  founder  of  Chautauqua,  and  who 
had  listened  to  all  sorts  of  oratory  for  forty  years, 
was   chosen  presiding  officer.     His   task   was  to 


300  Well  Stick  to  the  Finish 

keep  the  speakers  within  the  time  limit.  He 
proved  to  possess  a  rare  combination  of  wit  and 
repartee. 

From  the  personnel  of  the  party,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  ends  of  the  earth  had  been  brought  together. 
"Parson"  Clare  had  been  in  Russia  during  the 
Revolution,  and  his  sidelights  of  the  situation 
there  were  most  illuminating.  Representatives 
from  Africa,  New  Zealand,  Australia,  India, 
France,  Great  Britain,  Canada  and  the  United 
States  made  contributions  to  a  better  under- 
standing of  war  conditions.  Some  of  these  were 
called  upon  once,  but  two  of  us,  I  remember, 
were  called  upon  every  night.  It  might  be  said, 
however,  that  we  were  on  the  program  committee. 

An  illuminating  argument  came  personally  to  my 
attention  one  day.  Two  English  lads  coming  to 
America  had  been  having  an  animated  discussion. 
They  chose  me  as  arbiter.  One  said,  "How  many 
stars  are  there  in  your  flag  and  how  many  stripes 
has  it?"  One  contended  that  it  had  sixty-four  stars 
and  nine  stripes.  It  gave  me  an  opportunity  to 
deliver  one  Flag  Day  oration  on  a  subject  with 
which  every  child  in  our  public  schools  is  familiar 
when  he  pledges  allegiance  to  the  flag. 

During  the  progress  of  the  voyage  there  was 
one  exciting  moment.    It  was  when  the  foam  of  a 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  301 

torpedo  hissed  astern  of  the  ship.  From  that 
moment  the  captain  posted  a  notice  of  warning 
that  each  must  wear  life  preservers — eating,  sleep- 
ing or  waking.  Then  began  the  life-boat  drill  in 
earnest. 

The  journey  also  afforded  an  opportunity  to 
inspect  the  ship.  Under  the  gracious  guidance 
of  Captain  Irwin,  I  was  shown  the  accommoda- 
tions for  our  boys  who  are  being  taken  across. 
The  ship  had  capacity  for  about  two  thousand 
seven  hundred,  or  all  she  dared  to  carry  and 
"get  off."  Every  possible  comfort  was  provided. 
Many  of  the  officers  and  soldiers  have  staterooms, 
but  an  additional  bed  has  been  built  in  the  space 
between  the  two  tiers  of  regular  bunks  on  the  side 
by  taking  out  the  partition.  Each  stateroom  is 
scrupulously  clean  and  provided  with  fresh  sheets 
and  clean  blankets.  Hammocks  serve  as  a  resting 
place  for  the  others  during  the  night.  All  in  all,  our 
boys  go  across  under  most  comfortable  conditions. 

MacDonald,  the  chief  engineer  of  the  ship,  was 
aboard  the  Carmania  when  she  was  fighting  in  the 
battle  of  the  Falkland  Islands. 

On  the  bow  of  the  ship  the  triangle  paroplanes 
were  placed  the  last  night  out.  These  cut  the 
wires  of  the  mines  and  set  them  adrift.  We  then 
knew  that  it  was  the  last  dav  at  sea.    As  we  neared 


302  We'll  Stick  to  the  Finish 

the  end  of  our  journey,  they  were  hauled  up. 
They  were  covered  with  fish,  partly  dressed  and 
masticated  ready  for  a  meal,  if  anybody  wanted 
one  of  that  kind. 

Finally  Ambrose  Light  hove  in  sight.  We 
had  received  the  wireless  news  of  enemy  sub- 
marines in  American  waters.  This  explained  the 
bits  of  wreckage  we  had  seen.  As  we  came  nearer, 
airplanes  were  hovering  about  and  observation 
balloons  stationed  in  the  air  were  watching  for 
submarines.  Our  ship  was  still  zigzagging.  The 
bell  in  the  pilot  house  was  ringing  every  ten 
minutes,  the  signal  to  change  the  course.  The 
submarine  could  not  fire  a  torpedo  inside  of 
fifteen  minutes.  When  we  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Staten  Island  there  was  a  cheerful  look  on  the 
faces,  its  emerald  green  flashing  in  the  red  of  the 
sky  like  an  opal. 

And  now  we  are  abeam  of  the  Statue  of  Liberty. 
If  a  fitting  scene  for  the  close  of  a  most  memorable 
journey  were  desired,  nothing  more  dramatic 
could  have  been  laid  than  that  which  was  staged. 
Fifty -five  ships,  the  decks  piled  high  with  supplies, 
guns  bristling  fore  and  aft,  camouflaged  in  baffling 
designs,  were  passing  the  Statue  of  Liberty  on 
their  way  to  France. 

America  was  busy. 


C'est  la  Guerre — It  is  the  War  303 

These  cargoes  carry  on  the  war  pledge  of  "our 
entire  resources,"  but  in  the  transports  bearing 
our  soldiers  overseas  is  carried  the  treasure  untold. 
Your  boy  and  my  boy — from  a  million  homes — 
have  sailed  for  France,  and  gazed  long  upon  this 
emblem  consecrated  to  liberty,  whose  arm  is  ever 
uplifted  while  facing  the  glowing  east,  where  the 
hope  and  love  of  our  evening  prayers  greet  the 
rising  sun  of  tomorrow. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL 


AA    000  832  99 


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